A Photograph of the Artist as a Young Man
by fishwrites
Summary: Rising fashion model Alfred Jones is cast along side the famous but reclusive Arthur Kirkland for a GQ UK editorial. He quickly discovers that the fashion world's new golden child is actually blind.
1. One

_**A**_

**P H O T O G R A P H**

_of the _

**A R T I S T **

_as a _

**YOUNG MAN**

:i:

the story to Abhauen's blind!child art verse.

:i:

{| ONE |}

:i:

"_For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it._

_For every love there is a heart somewhere to receive it."_

– Ivan Panin.

:i:

The Milestone Hotel, London, Present Day.

"I still don't see why you couldn't make do with someone closer to home," said Arthur.

He leaned back into his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him. His hand was curled around a china tea-cup. He could feel the reassuring warmth of the teapot near his elbow and drew a lazy pattern in the velvet coverlet of the armrest with his free hand, bored.

Francis chuckled. The rustle of fabric as the French photographer shifted in his seat, recrossing his legs. The quiet shift of sleeves against cufflinks. Somewhere in the room, a grand father clock chimed for three in the afternoon. Arthur drank more tea.

"I could never _make do_, as you say," mused Francis, "What about my reputation?"

Arthur snorted.

"What reputation, exactly?"

"Oh you wound me," said Francis without any real conviction. It was more or less routine now, the insult, the half-hearted banter. "I needed someone… more _authentic_. With a bit of sun in his hair."

"Right. So you shipped one over from California," said Arthur, unimpressed, "What's more, you ship some obscure name who has been on the books for how long?"

"Six months," said Francis nonchalantly, "Though to be fair we ourselves have not been around for that long. I saw a glimpse of him at New York fashion week – the one you did not attend. Though you can't have forgotten already, I'm sure I mentioned him to you - "

"In detail," Arthur interjected, taking the teapot and pouring himself another cup. The interruption didn't seem to deter Francis' enthusiasm, however – he was still prattling on.

" – lovely blue eyes and a lovelier pair of legs. Mmm," said Francis, drawing out the last syllable in thoughtful pleasure, "a tad taller than you which would suit that _scene _I have in mind, oui… the one with the rifles. A little young about the face and from what Tino tells me – he's that Finnish designer who found him – rather excitable. Though I'm sure your sweet temperament shall soon put him right."

"Bugger off," said Arthur, sinking even deeper into his chair, "I don't care how amazing this boy is – he's also _late_."

He bit out the last word sharply, hoping that he sounded irritated enough to cover the slight buzz of nerves at the base of his spine. It wasn't that he was _nervous _about meeting the boy – it was the prospect of shooting with someone else that made Arthur uneasy.

"I'm sure he shall arrive soon – I sent him a car," said Francis easily.

"Of course you did."

"And what's that supposed to me, _mon ami_?"

A brisk knock at the door of the suite saved Arthur the trouble of forming a suitably witty retort. He drained the rest of the tea instead, taking his time refilling the cup. Something to occupy his hands with, and look occupied.

"Speak of the devil," said Francis, and there was the sound of shifting fabric once more as he stood up, crossing the room in a few long strides. The click and metallic sound of a door handle being turned.

_Yes_, thought Arthur, _uneasy was the word_. After all, he usually shot solo – and only with Francis. It was easier that way, both of them used to each other's habits, movements and idiosyncrasies. A third person was someone Arthur couldn't read, couldn't predict, couldn't _see. _It made him uneasy, the thought of this unknowingness being captured in still, frozen time.

"Ah, _bonjour_," said Francis – Arthur could almost see the hand-wave, the smooth flick of wrist and sleeve, – "I'm glad you found us. Come in, come in!"

"Thanks!" someone said, brightly, "Yeah, sorry I'm a bit late the traffic was insane. I'm Alfred! Alfred F. Jones!"

Even from across the room, Arthur could hear the exclamation marks punctuating the end of every word as the newcomer shook hands with Francis. He sounded very, _very_ American. Arthur set the teapot back on the table with deliberate care and ignored the exchange.

"Well, it's London," said Francis, "Be glad it isn't raining the moment."

The boy – Alfred – laughed, and the sound was so loud, so unrestrained that it caught Arthur by surprise. It was a nice laugh, he thought absentmindedly…then mentally slapping himself the face. No. It was abrasive and annoying and Francis had no business forcing Arthur to be its company. It probably had a gormless grin to go with it, thought Arthur uncharitably.

"It was raining buckets when I got here yesterday!" said Alfred. The door closed with a soft _thud-snick _and there was the sound of footsteps, one heavier than the other. Arthur couldn't be too sure since the sound was so muffled by the thick hotel carpet, which was probably patterned with the fur-de-lis to match the embossed wallpaper.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Um," said Alfred.

"Oh, that's just Arthur. Don't mind him, he's here because he couldn't bear to be apart from me even for one-"

"Shut it, frog," snapped Arthur from his seat, not turning around.

"Arthur will be your other half," explained Francis, the sound of his voice shifting as he presumably turned to face Alfred, "I was casting for our second model when I found you."

"Oh," said Alfred. "Nice to meet you, Arthur…?"

Maybe Arthur was imagining it, but Alfred sounded a little put out – perhaps because Arthur had yet to get out of his seat and greet him properly.

"Charmed," said Arthur dismissively, taking another sip from his cup. He remained seated, his chair turned strategically away from where Francis was now sitting with Alfred, a delicate glass table separating them. There was a crystal ashtray sunk into the centre of the table, and Arthur could still smell the remnants of the cigarette Francis had early this morning. He wrinkled his nose and inhaled the scent of Earl Grey with relief.

Tea calmed him; like the steady beat of a Chopin waltz, turned down low in the evening. His brother used to play along to the CDs, making up a duet on his violin as he went. Arthur would drink his cup of tea before it got cold, and the evening would draw its curtains, like eyelashes at the end of a long, long day.

"I know this isn't quite the usual way of doing things," said Francis, "But I wanted to see you in person before we meet with everyone tomorrow. You know, just in case. Take a few photographs. Et cetera."

"That's fine!" said Alfred. Arthur could feel the boy's gaze on his face, curious. There was a brief pause before Alfred seemed gather his wits about him. "Oh – um. Is my glasses okay? I have contacts too but I forgot to put them in this morning because I was in such a rush earlier – I didn't get to sleep on the plane much and there was this screaming baby in the row behind me, I'm kinda still jetlagged and – "

_Goodness it was like the lad had diarrhoea of the mouth. _

"Do you always talk this much?" Arthur interrupted, "Francis, get on with it."

"Haha! Aw, you're so British!" exclaimed Alfred delighted, as if Arthur wasn't insulting him, "Aw!"

Arthur scowled. Francis only laughed.

"_Francis_," warned Arthur – a verbal glare.

"Sorry, _mon lapin_," said Francis. "Alfred – if you could step this way? And just take off your glasses for now, that will do."

Footsteps and the shifting of fabric as Alfred presumably stepped this way. Arthur smirked into his teacup. Sometimes it was amusing to see how people interacted when confronted with Francis' charm and the weight of his fame. Arthur has seen stylists, models and assistants alike rush around to cater to the Frenchman's every whim, perhaps hoping for a spark of the flame when it was still hot. And Francis could be nothing but demanding when it suited him.

He heard the familiar click-whirr of a camera as Francis continued to talk to Alfred, casually taking pictures as they went. Alfred, it seems, had overcome is brief moment of shyness and was back to talking.

"…yeah, my grandparents have this awesome ranch – they live in Texas though, not with us – and I used to help out a lot when I was younger. Mattie was more a book-person tand he always complained that it was too hot but I loved it."

"Mattie?" Francis enquired. _Click._

"My brother – he looks exactly like me. We're twins!"

Arthur rolled his eyes at the conversation – how utterly unprofessional. Francis, on the other hand, made a noise, which to any other person would have sounded surprised, but to Arthur's trained ear was nothing lewd.

"Twins? _Really?_ …And does he model also?"

"Nah, Mattie is super shy and hates cameras. We were in a TV commercial together once though, when we were like five. For pancake mix."

Francis laughed, and there was the sound of something – his camera – being set down on the glass coffee table.

"Well perhaps we can persuade him to grace my camera at some point in the near future, oui? Twins are…striking, as they say. Now, Arthur? I need to borrow you for a moment."

Ignoring the bundle of nerves knotting his stomach, Arthur gave an exaggerated sigh of annoyance. He set the unfinished cup of Earl Grey on its saucer before standing up, one hand lingering on the back of the chair was he made his way towards Francis. Judging by the stripes of sunlight painting slivers of warmth across the carpet, Francis was standing with his back to the windows, with Alfred slightly to his left. He needn't have worried though, as Francis wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist and tugged him around, nudging and pushing him into position. Arthur scowled.

"Merci," said Francis, stepping back, "Just stay there and let me think."

"Wait," said Alfred, who had fallen suspiciously silent until then. Then he exclaimed, as if seeing Arthur properly for the first time (which to be fair he was), "You're – You're Arthur _Kirkland_!"

Arthur folded his arms, deliberately turning his shoulders so that his face was turned away again.

"Yes," he said shortly.

Then suddenly he was spun around by large hands, one of them grasping his own and shaking it up and down vigorously.

"Holy sh- awesome to meet you, I'm Alfred!"

Shocked by the forwardness of the gesture and a little bit embarrassed by the flattering tone of awe in Alfred's voice, Arthur wrenched his hand back.

"I know. You've introduced yourself three times already," he said, turning away again, hoping he wouldn't blush. His hand tingled from when it had been held too tightly.

Alfred laughed. "Aw, sorry. But it's…. I just didn't think I'd actually meet – like wow, I loved your Burberry campaign you know?"

"Right," said Arthur, awkwardly, "Ah. Thank you."

It was Alfred's proximity that was so off putting; Arthur wasn't sure if he was going to be grabbed again and shifted slightly away just in case. He could hear Alfred more of less _vibrating _with energy and wondered how this partnership was ever going to work. Arthur was struck by the urge to hold Alfred still – and wondered what his face looked like. Right now 'Alfred' was only a blur of enthusiasm, a bright loud voice and vague descriptions from Francis. He was a tall shadow in the late afternoon sunshine. That barely painted a portrait of a person. He seemed larger than life, too young, too unprofessional, too _cheerful. _

Arthur found it all a little disorienting.

Francis made a _tsk _noise at the back of his throat.

"Let's not get overexcited," he said, "Now if you will stand still, Alfred. Merci."

"Sorry."

Arthur, who was used to the way Francis worked, pretended to examine his nails, one hand resting in his pocket as he listened to Alfred fidget beside him. He shifted from one foot to the other, then back again. Then he scratched the back of his head. Then there the sound of hands being shoved into small pockets – was the boy wearing _jeans_? Typical.

Meanwhile Arthur could hear Francis walking slowly around them both.

"Do you want me in a chair now?" asked Arthur, pre-emptively.

"Mm," said Francis. Arthur took three steps to his left to where he knew there was a high backed chair next to the chaise long. He pulled it over, careful not to whack the chair leg on anyone, and straddled it.

"Um, do I need to-" Alfred began.

"No yet," said Arthur.

There was a long, long pause. Arthur rested his chin on the back of his hand.

Alfred scuffed his shoes on the carpet.

"Alright," said Francis. Arthur took the cue to stand up.

"Now you sit," said Arthur.

"…how?" asked Alfred, sounding a little wary, "Do I just sit?"

"I believe that is what I said," said Arthur, briskly. He didn't want to make any gestures in case they were a little off – he still wasn't quite sure how tall Alfred was, after all – so he waited until he heard him take the seat.

They sat in silence as Francis regarded them thoughtfully. Arthur could feel the warmth of the sunshine on his face, filtering in through the window. Perhaps he should draw back the drapes a little more.

"Perfect," said Francis, and his tone had snapped back into usual, "You two a match made in-"

"Finish that sentence, frog, and I'll rip your balls off," said Arthur.

"Uh…"

" – heaven, exactly as I knew you would. My judgement is never wrong, of course, but I had to be sure," Francis continued, clapping his hands together.

Arthur didn't bother to reply, simply made his way back across the room until his fingers brushed the back of the armchair. He sank down into it, grateful that its back hid him from view. He rubbed his eyes with his hand, then reached for the pot of now lukewarm tea on the table beside him.

"Now, Mr. Jones," said Francis, all business once more, "I need you to take a look at these ah, documents, before the shoot. There are some extra clauses in the contract which I wish for you to sign for."

Alfred's brows furrowed in a confusion.

"Extra ones? Um, can you send those to my mo- uh, agent?"

Francis raised a sharp eyebrow and Arthur tensed in his chair. The teacup made a small tinkering sound as it shook slightly against its saucer.

"That would be quite unnecessary – it's just a few confidentiality clauses with regards to Mr. Kirkland and myself – important in this industry, you'd understand."

There was a flurry of movement and the rustle of papers being set on the glass coffee table. Both Francis and Alfred sat down – a muted snap as Francis closed a leather folder and placed it on the arm of his chair. Another rustling of papers.

"Oh, so like I can't say anything about your personal…blah blah blah," said Alfred as he turned the page, "Cool. Do I just sign here?"

There was a pause. Arthur wondered if Alfred was acting stupid or was simply careless and naïve. He was putting his money on the latter bet.

"You would want to read that carefully," said Francis, his tone pleasant.

"Sure!" said Alfred, "Um, can I borrow your pen?"

Another pause.

"Certainly," said Francis.

Arthur heard the smooth, metallic _shlick _as Alfred uncapped Francis' fountain pen. It was a heavy thing, cool to the touch. It had the Bonnefoy family crest embossed in gold upon it, and Arthur knew Francis carried that thing with him everywhere. He could still remember what it looked like, from before.

"Is that it?" asked Alfred, cheerfully.

Arthur let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, all the tension draining from his shoulders so that he slumped a little in his seat.

"Indeed _mon cher_," said Francis, and there was another flurry of movement, "Now, I trust you can make it to location on time on Wednesday."

Alfred laughed – it sounded sheepish.

"Yeah, sorry about today. I'll be there super early," he said.

"Good good," said Francis. The shuffle of footsteps as they both moved towards the door, "And we're meeting with the rest of the crew tomorrow, and nine o'clock sharp. Do not be late for that either. Antonio knows Arthur well by now but we need to make sure everything will fit you _well."_

He drew out the last word, suggestive, and Arthur wanted to smack him. Alas he could not reach.

"Okay!" said Alfred. Again with the exclamation marks, thought Arthur irritably, "Awesome! Um. I'll see you later Arti- Mr. Kirkland!"

Arthur gave a regal sort of dismissive wave from behind the couch.

"Yes, yes," he said, "Just don't be late tomorrow."

"No," agreed Francis, "Or I shall be…most displeased, _non_? It was lovely meeting you – read over that before the shoot."

"Will do!" said Alfred. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet – Arthur could tell, even with the carpet, "Thanks for – yeah, it was awesome meeting you guys."

"And you," replied Francis, sounding amused now.

A pause.

"I have things to discuss with Mr. Kirkland."

"Oh! Sure, sorry I'll be going now."

A chuckle. The soft _thud-snick _as the heavy wooden door closed.

"Well," said Francis, "That was interesting."

Arthur went to refill his cup only to find that there was no more tea left in the pot. He sighed.

:i:

"Holy shit," said Alfred, leaning against the closed door, "Holy shit that was _Arthur Kirkland_."

Pushing off from the door, he waited until he was in the gilded lift and out of earshot. Then Alfred pulled his phone from his pocket, biting the inside of his cheek with excitement. He counted the numbers flashing above the door as he sped-dialled the number _one_. The phone rang for a good three floors before being picked up.

"_Alfie?"_

"MOM! You're never guess what!" Alfred exclaimed, unable to keep his voice down. Then suddenly he had a mini heart attack as he quickly did the maths in his head. Minus five hours. Oh thank god, it was already 10am in New York. His mother wouldn't kill him.

"_I'm guessing you're about to tell me_," she said.

"Aw, well yeah, but seriously though – so I just met with the photographer, right? And-"

"_Bonnefoy? I hope you impressed him_."

Alfred's heart sank a little, his mother's words instantly making him worry. Had he impressed? Maybe he _had_ talked too much… The lift chimed as the doors opened onto the opulent lobby and Alfred stepped out, phone still pressed to his ear.

"Well I think it went okay – they've officially cast me already so. Um. But you'll never guess who they've cast for the other guy – wait they didn't tell you first and you just never told me did you because that's -"

"_No, I don't know. Do get to the punch line, sweetie, Mommy's a little busy._"

His shoes – new and shiny and a little bit uncomfortable to walk in – squeaked on the polished marble floor as he crossed the lobby. The doorman bowed him out of the gilded front doors and Alfred stepped onto the busy street, late afternoon sunshine throwing long shadows across the road.

"It's Arthur Kirkland! _The _Arthur Kirkland!" he blurted out, unable to keep his voice down. A few passers-by cast him quick, curious glances.

There was a static-filled pause in his ear.

"_Arthur Kirkland_?" his mother repeated, and Alfred's heart gave a happy wiggle as he detected the impressed tone in his mum's voice. "_You're joking. You're joking! They cast you with _Arthur Kirkland?"

Alfred pouted, even though his mother obviously couldn't see him over the phone.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Tsk. _Alfie, don't be so sensitive – you know as well as I do how green you are, it's nearly unheard of – I mean do you know he never works with anyone but Francis Bonnefoy? And refuses to come to New York no matter how many times I've asked…_"

"Yeah I heard he was super picky-"

"_And he never shoots with another model, never. Well, Bonnefoy has always insisted for some strange reason_. You're_ the first_."

Alfred gulped, eyes a little wide.

"Oh shit," he said, "The first…?"

"_Yes. So you'll forgive mommy for being surprised. Pleasantly surprised. See? Didn't I say you were born to model? Thank god you inherited your father's bone structure, even if he wasn't good for much else. It would have been such a waste for you to be off crunching numbers in an office or whatever it was you wanted to -_"

"Build rockets-" Alfred interjected, a little peevishly.

"_- of course sweetie. And this just proves me right! Mm_?"

"Yeah mom," said Alfred, dutifully.

"_Now, you must keep me updated. And I don't need to tell you how important this shoot is for your career."_

"No mom."

"_Good_. Arthur Kirkland_. My god,"_ she said. There was the sound of a door opening and someone speaking – voice too muffled for Alfred to make out the words. A moment later, his mother came back on the line. _"Alright, I've got to dash – was there anything else?"_

"Um…no," said Alfred, "Just that I also had to sign thi-"

There was a sudden burst of noise and static as the phone was moved. He heard his mother talking to someone in the background, sounding supremely pissed off. Alfred winced on behalf of whoever she was shouting at.

"_No, Andrea! I had it scheduled for one and he had better be here by one."_

More crackling

"Sorry honey, I've got to go."

"That's okay, but-"

"Make sure you do me proud," said his mother.

Alfred bit his lip, but forced the nerves from his voice.

"Yeah!" he said brightly, "I'm the hero!"

There was no reply for a long moment. Then Alfred realised his mother had already disconnected the call.

:i:

The next day, London rained.

:i:

True to his word, Alfred arrived to the first day of the photo-shoot early.

In fact, he was so excited he could barely sleep the night before and woke up at four in the morning unable to go back to sleep. He got up, had some milk (because his mother always gave him warm milk when he couldn't sleep) went back, rolled around on his bed, got back up, ate some crackers, went back to bed and watched the sunrise through the muted hotel curtains. At about six he decided to get dressed and ended up drinking three cups of coffee at the breakfast bar downstairs.

On hindsight, perhaps so much caffeine right before the shoot was a bad idea.

They were shooting in an old English manor house on the outskirts of London. He took a taxi because the bus routes and sub-way things were confusing and he didn't want to make a mistake and end up in France or something. As they drove away from the centre of London, Alfred could see the sky widening out as the buildings because smaller and less cramped. Green grass and trees filled his windows, painted against the grey morning sky.

As the taxi wound to a stop at the end of a long gravel driveway, Alfred was glad today's shoot was indoors because it was _pouring_ with rain. He took the last few steps at a run and ducked gratefully under the cover of the high stone roof leading to the sweeping front doors. Shaking out his umbrella (and himself), he looked out over the water drenched garden. A few soggy looking flamingos were huddling under the trees. Alfred stared.

The flamingos stared back.

And the staring contest would have gone on if not for a sudden interruption that shook Alfred out of his rain-drenched daze.

"Oi. You Alfred Jones?"

Alfred spun around.

A man about his age had appeared, half his body obscured by the door. From the half Alfred could see, he was dressed in a sharp looking suit, the jacket's sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He was wearing a blood red shirt with a stiff collar and a thin black tie. There was a gold pin in his lapel and he looked a lot like one of those Hollywood Italian mobsters. A short Italian mobster. A short _angry _Italian mobster.

"Yep, that's me!" said Alfred, thrusting his hand out with a smile. The man glared at him for a moment longer then rolled his eyes.

"That would explain why you're standing outside like a fucking idiot. Fucking Americans, retarded, the lot of you." The man held the door open a little wider. "Hurry up and get in then!"

"Uh…." said Alfred, letting his hand drop. As he walked past the mobster, his umbrella was snatched out of his hand.

"Give me that – seriously, fucking Americans. Fucking English weather, tea drinking pussies, no wonder the weather is so pissy…" the vicious muttering carried on as the man stalked across the brightly lit entrance hall and into the foyer. "…should leave you all to drown on your stupid island…"

Hesitantly, Alfred followed. Their footsteps echoed on the tiled floor.

"_OI YOU WINE BASTARD," _the man shouted, making Alfred wince and the crystal chandelier tremor, "_THE AMERICAN IS HERE. WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU ANYWAY WE'RE NOT YOUR SLAVES YOU KNOW-"_

"Lovi, Lovi!" A man Alfred recognised his stylist from the day before appeared at the top of the staircase, "Don't shout!"

"I'll stop shouting when wino stops bossing me around!" said the mobster – Lovi? – looking, if possible, even more pissed. Alfred wondered who he was, and sincerely hoped he wasn't someone who was required to come very close to Alfred's person.

"Aw, I'm sure he didn't mean to!" said the stylist. Antonio, that was his name, "And they're in their dressing room right now – can't hear you anyway. Why don't you check of Helen is here with the belts? Please?"

"Fuck you!" said 'Lovi', but disappeared into an adjacent doorway, slamming it with a crash. Both Antonio and Alfred winced.

Antonio sighed and descended the stairs.

"Alfred! Sorry about that, my Lovi has been running around all morning setting up. You're very early."

"Yeah," said Alfred, staring after the mobster, "I thought I'd be earlier just in case. Um. Should I go into hair and makeup or something?"

Antonio pulled out his smartphone and tapped something.

"Mmm, not yet. See what Francis wants – he's in the dressing room. It's the first room after you pass this landing on the second floor."

"Okay," said Alfred, "thanks!"

"No problem," said Antonio, almost floating across the room. He disappeared through a door and a moment later, Alfred could hear muffled cursing in Italian and Antonio exclaiming – "No, Lovi!"

Shouldering his bag more securely, Alfred made his way slowly up the grand staircase. The carpet was a muted red, a print of gold crests running diagonally down each step. The banister was a dark, polished wood, gilded with intricate carvings of vines and roses. The ceiling was frescoed and there were small chandeliers hanging from regular intervals, illuminating the hallways leading off from the landing. It was the sort of house that was always haunted and had a million secret passages. It probably had a cemetery in the back yard!

Alfred shivered apprehensively. He glanced right, then left, the right again.

Which way had Antonio said?

Deciding just to pick a random room, Alfred knocked boldly. No answer. He tried the door-knob but it was locked. Perhaps not then. Alfred tried the next door along. Also locked.

Ten minutes later, Alfred was lost.

He had managed to get into one room – a huge, hexagonal drawing room that housed a harpsichord and artfully scattered pieces of paper. He assumed this was one of the rooms they were going to be shooting in later that day. Glancing at his watch, he had moved on and simply ended up calling and pushing open doors. Creepy portraits of creepy English people stared at him disapprovingly as he walked faster and faster.

"Hello?" he tried again, spotting one door that he hadn't tried before. He knocked quickly, and receiving no answer, he jiggled the door knob. It twisted beneath his hands and he inched the door ajar. He froze as raised voices floated towards him from the far end of the room.

"…then maybe you should have hired someone else instead of a useless model who can't even – "

It was Arthur. Shouting.

"_Arthur. _Do not use that word! I would not trade you for the world and you know it. "

Francis was leading Arthur over to one of the mirrors set up against the wall, one hand at his elbow and the other at the small of his back. Arthur had one hand held out tentatively in front of him, running it along the edge of the table before half turning and patting the air behind him until his hand brushed the chair. Only then did he sit slowly, facing the mirrors.

Yet…Alfred was clearly reflected in the mirror and it was as if Arthur couldn't see him at all. Alfred's eyes widened in realisation. It was almost as if…

The door creaked as Alfred sucked in a breath of surprise and Arthur turned his head sharply towards the _sound_.

Oh my god, thought Alfred, dazed. Arthur Kirkland – _the_ Arthur Kirkland – was _blind_.

"Indeed," said Francis, and Alfred realised with dawning horror that he had just said that out loud. He back pedalled rapidly.

"Oh shit- I mean, sorry I shouldn't have been – I just got a bit lost so I was looking for you guys I – I got here super early just in case well, I just wanted to make a good impression and so Antonio said to come see you and I must have made a wrong turn or something and…and… oh my god is he really blind?"

Arthur's hand was clenched in a white knuckled fist on the table.

"_He_ is sitting right here, you brat."

Alfred's face flushed with embarrassment.

"I – "

"Mr. Jones," said Francis, stepping in between the two of them, hiding Arthur from view, "I presume you have read over your contract?"

Alfred blinked.

"Yes?" he lied.

"Then I would like to draw your attention to it – in particular the clauses regarding confidentiality."

"You mean no one knows?"

"Of course no one knows," Arthur spat out, voice strained.

"And if anyone does," said Francis, his smile still as pleasant as ever, "I will personally make sure you never work in Europe again."

Alfred swallowed hard, feeling the blood drain from his face. Oh shit.

"Oh shit," he said, "Look Fr- Mr. Bonnefoy, I'm not going to tell anyone! I wasn't – secret's safe with me!"

"Yes, until some tabloid offers you enough cash," said Arthur and Alfred felt rather insulted.

"No!" he said, waving his arms around in agitation, "I'm not like that! I'm not going to tell anyone, not even my mum! Hero's promise!" _Oh shit what if they cast someone else and he loses the shoot? _He turned back to Francis, "Please don't black list me or something? I'm - I'm sorry I burst in I really didn't- I mean-"

Francis held up a hand and Alfred closed his mouth.

"Oui. Fine. I did anticipate that…well. Perhaps this will make things more simple."

"More simple?" Arthur repeated, standing up, "Are you out of your mind?"

"Mon lapin," said Francis, sweeping around and forcing Arthur back into his chair, "The shoot will run much more smoothly, makes my job much easier-"

"Blasted frog are you saying I make your life difficult? I'll have you know you make _my _life absolutely -"

"Yes, yes," said Francis, running his fingers through Arthur's hair in what Alfred assumed was an attempt to subdue it, "I'm a blight upon humanity, et cetera, et cetera. Now Alfred-"

Alfred looked up.

"Sit," Francis commanded, pointing at second chair in front of the mirrors, "Antonio and Helen will be back soon."

"Yeah," said Alfred. He sat, not really listening. His mind was still whirring with his new discovery, and it felt like there wasn't quite enough air in the room for the three of them. He couldn't help staring, sneaking glances when Francis was busy fiddling with Arthur's hair.

"Keep gawking and I'll break your nose," said Arthur Kirkland.

"Sorry," said Alfred, ducking his head.

Francis laughed.

"Here is how this is going to work," he began.

:i:

They could hear the rain thundering outside, against the window pane.

"It's to see how tall you are, in relation to me," explained Arthur, standing in front of him. They were very close together as Arthur laid a hand on his arm, running up to his shoulder, then to his neck. Alfred shivered involuntarily as Arthur's fingers brushed over his collarbones.

Arthur paused, palm warm against Alfred's jaw.

"Hurmph," he said, "You _are_ tall."

Alfred let out a laugh, "Yeah, I guess. Normal for models right?"

"Hm," said Arthur. The pad of a thumb ran over Alfred's cheekbones. Arthur's hands were curious, palms soft, fingertips calloused.

His eyes were very green, but they stared through Alfred, unseeing.

:i:

_Two hours later._

If Alfred had been nervous about working with the great Arthur Kirkland, it was nothing compared to the feeling of _actually _working with the great Arthur Kirkland. And Francis Bonnefoy – who seemed to lose every trace of pleasant charm when behind the camera lens.

"When I said I wanted a gramophone, I meant a gramophone you imbecile! Lovino? Take this ridiculous _'dock' _out of my sight."

Out of the corner of his eye, Alfred saw the mobster do as he was told without a single curse word. Shit. One of the assistants finished re-positioning the old brass globe and scuttled quickly out of the frame.

"Don't worry," said Arthur quietly, as Francis strode towards them across the room, camera slung around his neck. The lens looked like a cannon. The kind that blew people up in a war. "He's always like this."

"Did you say something, _mon cher_?" said Francis, his tone of voice switching from _angry dictator_ to _gentle _so fast Alfred gaped.

"Only about how hard you are to work with," said Arthur, dead pan.

"Oh you English, always with the sarcasm," said Francis, smoothing Arthur's lapels. He was wearing a dark fitted suit, sombre and the colour of spilled red wine. It made him look very pale. There was a jade green brooch at his throat, the high white ruffled collar stiff against his neck. It matched the colour of his eyes.

"I want to try with you on Alfred's right, to begin with," said Francis, taking Arthur's hand and placing in on the desk, "You'll be standing on this map here –" he nudged Arthur, letting him take two steps away from the desk and then pulling him back, subtly. "- the world is your empire, you see? It is at your feet." He turned Arthur at the shoulder, "Yes, like that."

"Who put the globe here?" he said, frowning. Picking it up, he handed it to Alfred. "Alright, _mon petit_ _revolutionarie, _lean against the desk for now. Yes – I want you to-"

"If Arthur has the world at his feet," said Alfred, "Do you want me sitting on the ground? Like this!" he proceeded to do just that, curling letting one leg sprawl out and propping his elbow up on his other knee, the globe in his hands. He was wearing a loose fitted shirt, open at the collar and he let one of the sleeves hang over the globe as he turned it idly with a finger.

The room was silent. And Alfred suddenly realised that he had just ignored Francis' instructions. Arthur kicked him in the back with his boot.

"Ow!– that was just an idea-"

"You brat-!"

"Hmm," said Francis, tilting his head, "Run with that. Alright we're starting!"

Everyone knew Arthur Kirkland. But people knew very little _about _Arthur Kirkland. He had been catapulted into fame after he became the face of _Bonnefoy_ at the age of 18 – an unsigned, English boy no one had ever heard of. He quickly became GQ's new golden child, appearing in UK, Italy and France in rapid succession. Everyone wanted to book him. He turned nearly all of them down. All of those, Alfred realised, which cast him along side another model.

His heart was thrumming.

Arthur was like a living statue, carved from cold marble and perfectly poised as Francis took shot after shot. Alfred's eyes were slowly going a little starry from the repeated flashes, but Arthur was eerily still. He moved only when instructed, save for the minute shifts in the angle of his face, his hands, the sharp line of his shoulders and hips.

Alfred almost felt ungainly, next to him.

"Focus!" said Francis, snapping Alfred out of his reverie, "A little more spirit, Alfred, give me unhappiness, give me _discontent._"

Alfred glared at the camera.

"_Oui, c'est manifique_– no, no, no stay right there Arthur!"

A pause.

"Actually someone get me a wine glass – red wine – Arthur, a toast to yourself."

Arthur mimed with his empty hand tucking his other in his pocket. It was a subtle movement, full of lazy grace and a kind of self-awareness explained how Arthur looked so striking in every glossy photograph. He tilted his wrist so that a harsh shadow fell across his sleeve. Alfred was mesmerised.

"Yes, like that."

"This is terribly cliché Francis, even for you."

"Cliché? Cliché? What are you saying - _where is that wineglass? _And someone fix Alfred's hair, that piece is sticking up again. _Godammit_ why are you all so incompetent?_"_

:i:

If the set allowed it, Francis usually dismissed all the assistants while he worked. It was both unusual and a little impractical. For one, it always resulted in him shouting out demands in mixed French and English and some poor assistant (more often than not, Lovino) running in and out, slamming doors as he went.

The next scene they were shooting was a little simpler, with a lot less props to work with. It was also to be the first of the twelve-page spread. Francis dressed Arthur first, in what felt like heavy brocade and a stiff, elaborately embroidered jacket. As he sat in front of the dressing table to get his makeup redone, he could hear Alfred being verbally abused by Lovino somewhere to his right.

"Maybe you should work out more, burger boy," he was saying. There was the sound of a belt being tightened, leather sliding against metal. Alfred let out a little _oof. _

"Um," he said uncomfortably, "where's Antonio?"

"Fuck if I know," said Lovino.

It had been nearly a year since Arthur had saw him last, but the man's language was just as colourful as ever.

"You sure that needs to be that tight?"

The rustling of fabric. Then –

"Stand still or I kill you."

"Okay! Okay, Jeez!"

Arthur smiled, eyes closed as the makeup artist retouched his eyelids.

"There," she said, "You're done."

"Marvellous," said Francis, appearing at Arthur's side in a waft of his familiar cologne, "Maybe we can move it to the lounge then? Here, Arthur, a crown. It's light."

"What colour?" asked Arthur.

"It's silver. With lovely onyx stones set in."

He felt Francis set a circlet upon his head, letting strands of his hair fall artfully across Arthur's face. Then there was the familiar sensation of Francis' hand at Arthur's elbow as he led him across the cluttered dressing room and to the door.

"Shooting in five!" he said, "Alfred, tell Helen if that strip of hair is not gelled down I shall cut it off myself."

"What?" Alfred cried, sounding horrified at the every thought, "No, man! Don't cut off my hair!"

Lovi cackled with laughter and Arthur smothered a snigger as they made their way down the hall.

"How are you feeling?" Francis asked, voice low.

Arthur shrugged.

"Better than can be expected. It _is_…perhaps easier that Alfred knows about. My disability. For you to instruct and so forth."

He could almost hear Francis frowning, but the expected rebuke did not come. Instead, he let out a sigh.

"I think you two work well together," he said, after a moment of silence, "it is not to difficult from the usual?"

"We're not exactly interacting," said Arthur, "You need to relax and trust me."

They stopped as Francis pushed opened another door. They barely took two steps into the room when someone slammed into Arthur from the back, making him stumble. If it hadn't been for Francis' hand, suddenly gripping his arm, he probably would have fallen face first.

"Ack! Shit! Sorry!"

"Alfred!" Francis admonished, "You must watch where you are going. You nearly bowled us over!"

"Sorry – oh my god, Arthur are you okay?"

Arthur shook himself free of Francis' with a scowl in his direction.

"I'm _fine. _Though whatever possessed you to run like a maniac? We're barely a hundred meters away you git."

Shuffling footsteps.

"I'm just. Um. Coffee?"

Francis sighed again, sounding put upon.

"Yes, yes. Just be more careful next time, please. Now Alfred, take that chair – do you have the quill and papers –"

Arthur heard the mad fluttering of paper being waved about.

" – good. Rest that on the arm of the chair. Arthur…"

Francis took him by the shoulders and steered him across the room, around various lighting equipment and props. When they stopped, he held both of Arthur's hands and placed them gently on something smooth and arched. Arthur could feel grain of wood against his fingertips, chipped in the corners. The back of the seat. He let his hands run over it slowly, carefully, judging its height and shape. It was a large, high backed chair, not unlike a throne, with old thick velvet on the back.

The chair was an easy anchor for Arthur to work around. It faced the camera and thereby Arthur could orient himself around the chair, it's corners and edges ensuring he knew exactly where Francis (and Alfred) was. It made him feel safer.

"You'll be standing behind Alfred, the Empire controlling his prince, _oui_? Alfred, please sit down. No that quill has no ink. It is not a pen."

"Sorry," said Alfred, and Arthur heard him sit in a flurry of movement. The back of his head brushed Arthur's knuckles, where he was still holding the chair.

"Good. We will go from here. Lights please!"

Though Arthur could not see, he could feel the heat of the lights emanating from the dishes set up around the chair. It was warm against his face, while the rest of the room fell into cool darkness with the click of several buttons.

"Good. Alfred – look here."

Arthur felt Alfred move, tilting his head up. He tilted his own downwards, 'glancing' up beneath his eyelashes. He curled his fingers over the back of the chair so that the large, jewelled rings on his knuckles would be visible.

_Click._

"Yes! – keep it there – a little less anger, Alfred, and a little more fear. I want to see vulnerability staring back at me through the picture. No _don't pout._"

"Try widening your eyes," Arthur suggested.

"Um, like this? Wait give me a second."

Alfred did something odd – perhaps he shook his head back and forth rapidly – but when he stilled once more, it was to Francis shouting –

"Freeze!"

…and the sound of the camera clicking. After a moment though, Alfred started fidgeting _again, _and Arthur could tell he had been distracted by someone opening the door. Honestly, where did Francis find this boy? Judging from the photographer's sigh of exasperation, he could tell that he himself had gotten distracted from Alfred being distracted.

"Arthur, darker," said Francis, snapping his fingers, "You're disgustingly rich, it's about power: _abuse it - _"

Alfred turned his head, presumably to look at Arthur. Having had enough, Arthur stopped him mid-turn by holding Alfred's face with both of his hands and turning him back to the camera. He leaned forwards, hair slipping partially over his eyes.

"_Do. Not," _he hissed, "_Look. Away._"

Alfred swallowed, hard, and Arthur could feel his eyes widen in surprise, the skin shifting beneath where his fingertips were digging slightly into Alfred's cheekbones. His hair was surprisingly soft.

_Click._

"Yes, perfect," Francis exclaimed. "Antonio?"

"Here!" someone said, and the door opened once more with a bang.

"Do you still have those black gloves from Louis Vuitton? Give them to me. The black pair, not the brown."

A moment later, Arthur heard the sound of fast approaching footsteps. Francis handed him a pair of thin leather gloves, which he pulled on, fumbling at the silver buckles.

"Go back to what you were doing before. Perhaps turn your face towards Alfred a little more, whisper something. Alfred, hold that, I like it."

Arthur flexed his fingers to make sure the glove fit properly – it was like a second skin, quickly warming to the touch – and he placed a hand back to the chair to orient himself. Letting one elbow rest on the sloping arch of the chair, he placed his hands on either side of Alfred's face, thumbs at his temples and fingers curved, spider like over smooth skin.

Leaning forwards, he turned his head so that his lips were barely brushing Alfred's ear. He felt Alfred's breath hitch in his throat. Arthur lowered his eyes, angling it to where he imagine Alfred's collar to be.

"Remember," he whispered, "Don't look away from the camera."

Alfred shivered.

"Okay," he said, voice barely audible.

_Click._

:i:

They broke for lunch around one, by which time the rain had stopped. They had miniature sandwiches, fruit salad and juice. Arthur had Earl Grey served in bone china – something (the only thing) he requested to be present at any and every photo-shoot he did. Right now, the tea was steaming on a silver tray, which Francis was carrying for him.

There was a _chink _as the food was set down on a table, Francis nudging him into a chair. Arthur resisted, digging his heels into the carpet.

"I thought you said there was a piano," he said, unable to keep the petulance out of his voice.

Francis let out a huff of amusement.

"Harpsichord," he said, but not after you have eaten. "You barely had breakfast!"

"That's because you cooked it," Arthur muttered without any heat. Reluctantly, he felt for the chair behind him and sat down. There was the gentle rush of tea being poured into a cup, immediately filling the air with the scent of Earl Grey. Arthur felt the tension drain out of his shoulders. He traced the edge of the tray with a finger, deft, light, quick – and picked up the cup.

The other chair squeaked a little as Francis sat down opposite. Arthur paused.

"Do you mind if – I mean, leave once I've finished. I want some time alone before being your mannequin for the rest of the day."

Silverware clinking.

"Alright," said Francis, simply.

They ate in companionable silence.

On hindsight, Arthur should have known that peaceful solitude was too much to ask for with one Alfred Jones around.

:i:

The nearest McDonalds was more than 20 minutes drive away – 30 in lunch-time traffic. Alfred looked worriedly over the small buffet table that had been set out in the foyer before adding a few more miniature sandwiches onto his plate. They were _tiny. _How would anyone be full from eating them?

Balancing a Styrofoam cup of orange juice on the edge of the plate, he set out to look for Arthur. Curiosity was burning in his chest like…like…something that burned. Alfred frowned. Vodka? He was half way up the stairs when he spotted Francis coming the down in the opposite direction.

"Be careful with that," said the photographer casually, nodding towards Alfred's cup, "Someone will have my head if these carpets are stained."

"Don't worry, I have awesome balance," said Alfred, grinning. "Um, you haven't seen Arthur around have you?"

Francis paused, one hand on the wooden banisters. He gave Alfred what seemed like a shrewd once-over.

"He's asked to be left alone for lunch," he said, after a long pause.

Alfred's shoulders drooped. He thought the sandwiches curled a little at the edges in disappointment.

"Oh. Oh, okay."

"Though I'm not sure he's got enough food. So if someone were to check in on him – " Francis made a casual gesture at one of the doors down the hallway, " – well. I certainly had nothing to do with it."

Alfred grinned.

"Thanks!"

"_De rien_," said Francis, sounding amused, and continued sedately down the stairs.

Taking the stairs two steps at a time, Alfred almost burst through the door in question… before remembering what happened that morning. He skidded to a halt. Balancing the platter of sandwiches in one hand, he raised the other to knock.

Then he paused, tilting his head to listen. Someone was playing music.

The instrument was unfamiliar at first, and Alfred pressed his ear against the wooden door. It _wasn't_ a piano; but the notes dropped to the floor with the same clarity, sharp and crisp like a breath after the rain. It was a dialogue of two voices spinning slowly towards and then away from each other. It faltered a little, as if hesitant, then resumed. And although Alfred didn't recognise the piece, he was pretty sure it was…Bach? It was quiet affair, barely trickling through the door. The music fitted the manor like two pieces of a puzzle, and Alfred could almost feel the notes sinking into the rich embossed wallpaper lining the walls, each phrase disappearing with a sigh into the thick carpet beneath his shoes.

It only made the curiosity burn brighter in his chest, reigniting something decidedly _star-struck_ which he had managed to squash during the photo shoot. As the last notes slowed to a finish, Alfred held his breath, waiting for the music to continue. It didn't. Instead, Arthur's voice called out, clear and irritated.

"Frog, when I said to leave me alone, I didn't mean stand there and listen like a creep."

Alfred winced. Crap. Arthur probably had bat hearing since he couldn't see. There was nothing for it but to fess up. He turned the door-knob, pushing the door open tentatively.

"Um, it's me," he said. Then stared some more.

Arthur was dressed in what looked like his version of comfortable clothes for lunch – pressed dress pants, white shirt and a dark green sweater with a thin grey tie (whereas Alfred was in his favourite comfy jeans). Alfred spotted a smart grey jacket that had been folded carefully over the back of a wicker chair near the window. But what made him stare the most was Arthur himself, hair haloed in sunlight, sitting straight backed in front of what looked like an elaborately painted piano. His face was turned towards Alfred, and looked unspeakably lovely. Alfred blushed.

"Oh. Indeed," said Arthur, sounding disinterested, turning quickly back towards the keys in front of him.

But now that Alfred knew what he was looking for, he wondered how he had not noticed Arthur's…predicament before. His gaze was vague, green eyes unfocused – as if staring at something over Alfred's shoulder.

"What's that?" Alfred blurted out, pointing at the instrument. Then he realised Arthur probably couldn't tell that he was pointing and stepped forwards to tap the lid. There were intricate paintings on the wood leaves and vines curling downwards towards the three legs. There were even little people walking along what looks like the Thames. "And why are the keys the wrong colour?"

"They're not the wrong colour," said Arthur, huffily, "It's a harpsichord. The keys were painted black to show off the hands."

And Arthur's pale skin did indeed look very nice against the black keys. They were pianist's hands, thin with long tapered fingers. Alfred looked down at his own hands, tanned and rough around the edges from sport and too many summers hunting with his grandfather in the Texas heat. He looked at the short nails, newly cut smooth for the shoot. He quickly tucked his hands into his pockets.

"I never knew you played the pia- um, harpsichord," he said, leaning awkwardly against the instrument. Then, wanting to make sure Arthur Kirkland didn't think he was ignorant, he added, "that was Bach, right?"

Arthur tilted his head in his direction.

"Yes, it was. The Goldenberg variations. I'm afraid I don't know how to play all of them…I'm out of practice."

"I couldn't tell," said Alfred, tone hopeful.

Arthur snorted, turning back to the keys again. He played a quick scale with his right hand; a brilliant flutter of notes. But there was a smile tugging at the edge of his lips, and Alfred counted that one as a victory.

"Do you play the piano then?" asked Arthur, after a moment of silence.

Alfred shrugged.

"Nah. Well I had lessons when I was little, but gave up during high school."

Arthur muttered something like _kids these days _and played a few more bars of something wistful.

"I don't own a piano, so I never have much opportunity to practice," said Arthur, then seemed surprised at his own admission, "It's – it's the violin, mostly."

"Really?" said Alfred, letting out a huff of laughter, "Wow, anything you can't do?"

"See." Arthur replied, dead-pan.

_Dammit._

Alfred felt like a stone just dropped into the bottom of his stomach; a horrible queasy rush that made his own gaze dart to Arthur's green, vacant eyes. They were a vivid sort of green, even behind half shuttered lids and long eyelashes. Arthur had really long eyelashes, the colour of wheatgrass like his hair. But Alfred couldn't help staring at Arthur's unfocused eyes, his stomach churning uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry. I just – sorry I didn't mean – like I can only play the guitar you know and I just, you're a model and you've only done like, four editorials or something and now you play this harp thing really well too and I'm just – it's a compliment, I mean I can see and I would probably still lose track of all of these keys – oh shit, sorry I - "

Arthur raised an (thick) eyebrow.

"I was simply teasing," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, "Do you always talk this much?"

Alfred clamped his own mouth shut, staring Arthur's hands.

"No," he lied, "Yes. Maybe. You and Francis are a bit intimidating you know."

"Intimidating," repeated Arthur, definitely sounding amused now, "Really."

"Yeah," Alfred said, feeling a blush creep slowly up his neck. Then he realised Arthur couldn't see blushes, and instantly felt a little better. He didn't know whether it was because he was now privy to Arthur's secret (holy shit, Arthur Kirkland was blind!) or whether Arthur was simply the sort to warm up to people quickly but Arthur was acting decidedly less of a jerk than he was that first day they met. He wouldn't even _look _at Alfred, and it made him feel like a rather irritating fly, something to be dismissed with a hand wave.

Well, he knew why Arthur couldn't look him in the eye, but still. Perhaps the poor guy was just shy. Or a recluse. _Maybe he just needed to go out more_, Alfred thought.

"The rain has stopped!" he said, "Wanna go outside?"

"No," Arthur said, bluntly.

"But it's not raining!" said Alfred, perplexed.

"So I observed. My answer's still no."

"It's sunny…?"

"_No_, Alfred. By all means go run around outside by yourself. Leave me in peace."

"Aw c'mon, don't be such an old man! We've been inside all daaaay," said Alfred. Outside, birds were chirping up a loud chorus on the trees, leaves wet with rain. He could see the flamingos shaking out their feathers.

"I'm not –! …How dare you suggest! – I'm only ," said Arthur, a pissy sort of expression settling across his face, "I'm not here to be your friend."

Alfred pouted. Then remembered that Arthur couldn't see him.

"Well then…can we go not-be-friends outside?"

Arthur whole body seemed to sigh – an exasperated gesture that made him slump a little towards the harpsichord. Alfred wondered if Arthur _ever_ went outside – maybe that's why he was so pale. Then he wondered whether it was terribly dangerous for a blind person to be walking around outside _period_ – Arthur didn't seem to have a guide dog. Or walking stick. Or dark glasses. In fact, you couldn't even tell he was blind unless you knew what you were looking for. What if he got run over while crossing the road?

"Do you have a guide dog?" asked Alfred, worried.

"Wh- no, I don't," said Arthur testily, "I don't need one."

"What if – "

"Just because I'm _blind _doesn't mean I'm an invalid," said Arthur sharply, turning away so Alfred couldn't see his face.

"I didn't mean that!" said Alfred in dismay.

"If you don't mind, I want to keep playing."

Alfred bit his lip.

"Can I stay and listen then?"

Arthur frowned, making his (rather large) eyebrows draw together.

"I suppose you may," he said at last.

"Awesome," said Alfred, grinning, sitting himself down beside Arthur on the long piano bench, "Shuffle over!"

"You -!" said Arthur. He deflated quickly in the face of Alfred's awesomeness. "Fine," he said, "But don't get in the way of that octave or you can sit on the ground."

"I can play the bits you can't reach and - "

"No."

Shaking back his sleeves, Arthur placed his hands back to the keys. Alfred watched curiously as Arthur felt for the indent of the lock at the lip of the piano, then traced upwards to middle C in a quick, deft movement that spoke of years of repetition. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

Up close, with their shoulders and knees touching, Arthur smelled like tea and something woody.

The sound of Bach wound its way slowly around their shoulders as they sat, not-being-friends.

:i:

On the other side of the door left ajar, Francis smiled to himself.

:i:

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTES<strong>: This is part of a collaboration between the lovely artist Abhauen and myself; you may know this as her blindchild!au. The links to the illustrations for this chapter can be found on my profile. Sorry this chapter is so long and boring! There is a lot to cover. The next chapter will have more backstory, how Arthur came to modelling and so forth and it should be updated in the next fortnight. Please visit my tumblr for more info or leave a review! 3 much love!  
>PS: it's also my first Hetalia fic, so with the AU context in mind, I hope I have done an alright job with characterisation! Crit is much appreciated!<p> 


	2. Two

:i:

**{| TWO |}**

:i:

**"_Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear_**

**_and the blind can see."_**

**– Mark Twain**

:i:

London, 4 years ago.

That day, it was raining.

After three and a half hours on his feet, Arthur paused in the kitchen and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. Even with the closed door, he could still hear the chatter and bustle of the teahouse as the rain pounded the roof in an endless, thunderous roar. Sighing, he uncapped his water bottle and took a long gulp. Checking his watch, he noted that he had another half hour to go before his shift finished. Capping the bottle, he stuffed it back in his school bag before pushing open the 'staff only' door and emerging behind the counter. As soon as he appeared, Lucy, one of the other girls working this shift, spotted him.

"Arthur!" she called, stuffing a tray into his hands. "Can you run this to table fifteen for me? I've got to take the scones out."

"Of course," said Arthur, trying to balance the tray and re-tie the laces of his apron, which had somehow managed to get undone. Pushing past the swinging wooden door that separated the counter and the rest of the shop, he quickly spotted the wooden '15' on one of the tables near the window and hurried over.

"Earl grey and strawberry tartlet for you, ma'am?" he asked, the words rolling off his tongue from months of repetition. The old lady at the table gave him a delighted smile. She was wearing a voluptuous hat – Arthur couldn't figure out whether there were any live birds in between all the floral decorations.

"Well aren't you just a charming lad?" she said, voice warbling as she fumbled with her purse. Arthur set the cup, saucer and plate down, along with the spoons. The lady slipped a five-pound note onto the tray as Arthur straightened up.

"Go buy yourself something nice, to ward off this horrible weather, poppet," she said, smiling. Arthur smiled back, tucking the money into his pocket.

"It is rather wet," he said, "Don't hesitate to call if you need anything else, ma'am."

The lady tittered, and waved him away. Following the scent of freshly made tea, Arthur made his way back to the counter. He wiped the tray down with a smooth, practiced motion and stacked it with the rest. Rolling his sleeves up more securely, he got to work, sighing a little at the influx of patrons who had obviously ducked into the shop to avoid the pounding rain outside. Lovely. It didn't look like the crowd was going to thin out any time soon, thanks to the weather. That meant Arthur was probably going to be running off his feet until the very end of the shift. _Awesome_.

It wasn't that Arthur hated his job. He held two, in addition to class – tutoring English and History around the schedule of his part time job at the _Royal Tea House_. And the pay wasn't bad, as far as jobs went, especially since he got to surround himself with the scent of tea and freshly made scones most of the time. Washing duty was a little less pleasant.

Despite being called the Royal Tea House, they also served coffee for those who were stupid enough to drink it. Arthur glared at the cup in his hands as he poured out a careful measure of cappuccino. Setting the silver jug back on the table, he grabbed a clear bottle and sprinkled soft chocolate dusting over the top of the foam. There. Perfect as something that was not tea could be.

Arthur never drank coffee. Though the scent of it was alright, he supposed. Readying the napkin and spoon, he passed the tray to the runner and returned to making the next order.

It was still raining half an hour later when Arthur hung his apron from the hook in the cramped staff room and shrugged his school blazer back on. Digging around the bottom of his bag, he pulled out his trusty collapsible umbrella.

"See you tomorrow," he said. Lucy pouted at him from where she was cutting a cake into thin, even slices.

"You're off?"

"Yeah," said Arthur, "My brother's picking me up."

"Jealous," said Lucy, "Your brother's hot."

"He's nearly a decade older than you, Luce," said Arthur, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever," said Lucy, waving a hand, "Have a good birthday!"

"Thanks," said Arthur, grinning despite himself, "Ta."

Closing the staff door, he made his way out of the back of the tea house. Unfurling his umbrella, Arthur jumped over a particularly large puddle only to accidently step in another.

"Bloody hell," he cursed.

The rain was torrential, dripping in a steady stream off the edge of his umbrella. At this rate, his bag was going to get wet. He quickly made his way around the side alley and onto the main sidewalk. Ducking under the awning, which stretched in front of the tea house, Arthur scanned the roads for a sign of his brother's car. A glance at his watch told him that his brother was five minutes late. Arthur frowned. Cars zoomed past, throwing up water where it had flooded the shallow gutters.

Ten minutes later, he spotted his brother's beat up car. It honked at him, double parking right outside the tea house. A taxi driver made a rude gesture as he swerved past, and Arthur smirked as his brother made an even ruder gesture in return. Snapping his umbrella closed, he wrenched open the car door and flung himself inside.

"Hey Iuan," he said, stuffing the bag in front of his seat. Iuan leant over, ruffling Arthur's hair with one hand while pulling quickly back into traffic with the other.

"Hey shortie," said Iuan, "Happy birthday 17th! How was school?"

"The same," said Arthur, pulling his seat belt on. He glanced at his brother. "Iuan! How many times do I have to tell you to put your damn seat belt on?"

His brother only laughed and rolled his eyes.

"_Yooo-wannn_," he said, in a poor imitation of Arthur (in Arthur's opinion), "You're turning seventeen, not seventy. Seriously, you need to stop acting like such an old man, Artie."

"I don't act like an old man!" Arthur protested, crossing his arms, "You're just terribly immature."

"Aww. But I'm still taller than you."

"You're older!"

"Yes. I often wonder when your legs are going to be able to reach the pedals. Maybe this year, aye?"

Arthur scowled the rain that was obscuring the windscreen.

"If you weren't driving, I would punch you in the face. Put your stupid seatbelt on."

"Aye, _mother_."

His brother made no move towards his seatbelt.

"Iuan!"

Iuan laughed uproariously. It quickly petered off though, as they turned right into another grey street painted dark with rain. Arthur fiddled with the old radio, but after a few minutes of static, gave up and sank back into his seat. The green digital clock beside the dash read 19:40.

"I hope we won't be late for the film," said Arthur, drawing the outline of the union jack on the window. The condensation dripped until the flag was almost unrecognisable. "Are we dropping by home first? I really want to change out of these clothes. And my hair is wet."

There was a long pause, broken only by the sound of the windscreen wipers struggling to clear the rain. His brother's silence made Arthur look around.

"Iuan?"

Iuan had a strange expression on his face. It looked almost guilty.

"Could we see it another day, maybe?" his brother asked at long last.

Arthur felt a stone drop to the bottom of his stomach.

"What? Why?" he demanded, sitting up, "You don't have work tonight! I booked the tickets weeks ago!"

Iuan didn't look at him, instead drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"I've got to pick up an extra shift at the garage, they only told me yesterday – I tried to get around it but they're laying off some guys at the end of the month and it's really important that I keep the job what with the bills as it is. We can celebrate your birthday tomorrow instead – we'll even go out for dinner at that sushi place you like so much. Yeah?"

Arthur looked at his hands.

There was an inexplicable lump in his throat.

"Fine," he managed to say, the word lodging itself painfully in his mouth, refusing to be spoken clearly.

He caught Iuan giving him a concerned look.

"Fine?" his brother repeated.

Arthur shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. He probably failed miserably.

"Yes, fine."

"I've…um, I've got your present at home. You can still open that tonight."

"If there's a chance that you'll lose your job then you shouldn't have wasted money on a present," said Arthur. It came out sharper than it was meant to, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. But the damage was done.

A flash of hurt crossed Iuan's face, to be replaced to irritation. His eyebrows – as thick as Arthur's own – knotted together.

"Look I'm sorry we can't go to the movies, but you know how important the money from the garage is, I can't afford - _we_ can't afford to - "

"I said it was fine!" snapped Arthur, turning his face away.

"Well you don't sound it," said Iuan, glaring at his little brother across the seat.

Arthur could see Iuan's face in the left wing mirror, red hair a blur of colour due to the rain blotting the window. His own face was pale and translucent in the glass, staring back at himself. He turned his gaze away.

"Well, maybe I'm not!" Arthur retorted, disappointment welling up inside him like a wave, clogging his lungs so he could hardly breathe. He had been looking forward to this for weeks – months, even. And now… "We hardly spend anytime together anymore. I see you when you get home and that's it. Maybe I just thought it wouldn't be a big ask to watch _one_ goddamn film with my brother on my birthday - !"

"It's not my fault that they changed my shift," Iuan replied hotly. The car made a worrying sound as they accelerated, but neither Kirkland paid it any mind, "I _tried, _Arthur, alright?"

Arthur didn't answer. He watched the buildings race by, their outlines distorted by the water on the window-pane.

"Maybe Francis can go with you instead," Iuan suggested after a long, strained silence.

Arthur didn't answer.

"Artie?"

"I don't want to watch the film anymore," he said quietly. The blue-white shop front of Francis' favourite patisserie ran like watercolour down a canvas as they drove past. A swipe of the paintbrush and it was gone, giving way to road and grey concrete. Even the people were grey beneath that black umbrellas.

"But haven't you already bought the tickets?"

Arthur glared at his own reflection. It was an ugly, pointed thing, which he disliked with a passion.

"Well I suppose they'll just have to go to waste, won't they?" he said, unable to keep the twist out of his voice. He understood the situation – of course he did, he was the one sorting through the bills every month, scraping together the rent – but the disappointment was too bitter, too heavy in his chest for him to ignore right now. He felt childish…but also terribly, terribly let down.

"Can you stop making this so difficult?" said Iuan, sounding thoroughly pissed off now, "I said I was sorry!"

The traffic lights were blurred halos, the red shining brightly, like dropped candy in a puddle. They drove past the traffic light. The car didn't stop.

"Iuan - "

"I know we didn't get to celebrate your birthday last year either but it's not – "

"_IUAN!_"

There was a terrible, screeching sound of tyres and metal scraping. A jerking sensation as Arthur was thrown against his seat belt, all the air leaving his lungs in a rushing gasp.

There was a blinding flash of pain at the back of his head. The sound of someone screaming –

– then nothing.

:i:

London

6 weeks later.

:i:

Arthur woke to the sound of rain pounding against the window. It rattled like the breath in his lungs, almost drowning out the steady _beep, beep, beep _of an electronic heart. It was a long moment before Arthur realised the sound mirrored the pulse on his wrist.

The room was pitch black. He couldn't see anything at all, not even a sliver of light between curtains or beneath a door. He blinked, deliberately – and the sensation assured him that his eyes were not closed.

Arthur tried to move, but everything was sluggish and slow. His left leg was immobile. He could feel the rough cotton of hospital sheets beneath the palm of his hands, the scent of starch when he turned his face towards his pillow.

He heard a crashing sound from somewhere beyond a door – a woman's muffled exclamation. And suddenly, his memory flooded back to him in a rush and he tried to sit up.

The beeping sound grew frantic, but there was something blocking his mouth, he couldn't _speak. _

Then warm hands at his shoulders, a familiar voice saying _shhh, shhh mon lapin, Arthur it's me, shhh now._

"Francis?" he managed to croak out. The word slipped reluctantly past his throat. It was dry and tasted like sandpaper. "Francis?"

"Yes, it's me," he said, sounding very close. The hand at his elbow disappeared for a moment, only to return, grasping Arthur's left hand. Arthur tightened his grip, anchoring himself.

"I think he can breathe unaided – give me a moment," someone said, a stranger – the doctor? _Why was it so dark? _"Mister Bonnefoy, I must ask that you step back for a moment…"

"Of course," said Francis, letting go and disappearing into the blackness. Arthur's hand suddenly felt very empty and very cold. He curled his fingers towards his palm, blinking hard.

A moment later, whatever was obstructing his nose and mouth was lifted away, and he took a gasping breath, coughing a little. He felt someone steady his head, felt the edge of a plastic cup at his lips. He took a gulp, the cold water slithering all the way down to his empty stomach to slosh loudly. There were a million questions on his mind.

"Why is it so dark?" he asked, voice still a little hoarse. A shiver of fear rose, unbidden, inside him and he reached out to the left, hands uncertain in the pitch blackness. "…Francis? Where - "

The sound of footsteps and suddenly there was a pair of hands clutching his own.

"I'm right here, I'm right here."

"I can't see," said Arthur, plaintively, "Why is so dark?"

There was a long moment of silence, punctuated only by the steady sound of machines in the background.

"What do you remember, Arthur?" Francis asked at last. His thumb was drawing a soothing circle on the back of Arthur's hand, over and over. It was a hypnotic sensation.

"Car crash," said Arthur promptly, turning his face to where he thought Francis' voice was coming from, "Car…where's Iuan?"

"The damage to the optic nerves by blunt trauma is quite severe," said the doctor, his disembodied voice forming from somewhere near Arthur's right foot, "I'm afraid we couldn't do much in surgery."

Dread felt like ice, cold and heavy in Arthur's stomach.

"_Where's Iuan?"_

"Mr. Kirkland – "

Arthur gripped Francis' hand.

"Francis. Francis, turn on the lights please."

"Arthur, _mon cher_, listen to the good doctor – "

"I want Iuan," he said, shaking his head, "And lights. Someone turn on the bloody lights!"

"Mr. Kirkland!" interrupted the doctor, sounding tired, "the lights _are _on. I'm afraid you have suffered extensive damage to your optical nerves. We…couldn't do anything more for your eyes."

Arthur could hear himself breathing. The sound was loud in a sightless world, filling his ears with a buzzing rush of static. He touched his own face with one shaking hand, to assure himself that his eyes were indeed open and this was not some…some _joke. _ He took a deep breath, trying to keep the panic at bay. He swallowed, wetting his lips before speaking.

"…is it permanent?" he asked.

Francis was still stroking his left hand.

"At this point…there is very little we can do," said the doctor. The click of a pen and rustle of clothing. Arthur closed his eyes and pretended that it was night-time. It made the darkness a little more bearable, at least for now.

_Blind._

He took another breath, then let it out slowly. Did anesthetic always smell this strongly? Perhaps it was just this particular hospital room.

"Arthur?" said Francis, gently.

"Don't," said Arthur, warningly. Then, "I want Iuan."

"Mr. Kirkland – " the doctor began, but then stopped abruptly.

There was a pause, the silence heavy with things Arthur couldn't see. _Blind. _He wondered why he wasn't feeling more shocked. He wondered why he was so calm. He wondered why it was Francis sitting beside his bed rather than his brother.

"I think it best if I tell him," said Francis at long last.

"Tell me what?" Arthur demanded, something cold gripping once more. He felt sick, "Francis?"

Dimly, he heard the door opening and closing, the messy sound of footsteps. He tightened his grip on Francis' hand, just in case the latter tried to walk away. Unbidden, he opened his eyes.

Everything was still pitch black.

"I. Want. Iuan," Arthur repeated.

A sigh.

"Arthur. Arthur you've been unconscious for almost a month."

His eyes widened.

It was a strange sensation, having eyes but no colour. No light. No sense that time had flown by, leaving Arthur a little lost and a little breathless.

"I don't - "

"You didn't wake up," said Francis, voice breaking at on the last syllable, "They had to go ahead with the surgery. And even after that, you were – we – I had started to think that maybe – "

"Francis," said Arthur, unable to ignore the dread any longer, "_Where's Iuan?_"

And although Arthur couldn't see Francis' face, he felt the fingers grow still against his own. There was so much silence he thought he was going to drown in it. Then, quietly:

"Your brother's not here anymore."

:i:

:i:

Francis took Arthur home from the hospital three days later. Back to Arthur's flat, not Francis' own because the doctor had said Arthur needed familiar things to help him through this transitional period. To help him acclimatize to being blind. The thought pierced his heart as sharply as it did a month ago, when the doctor had first told them the bad news.

"Do you want anything in particular for dinner?" asked Francis, in an attempt clear the silence which was suffocating the car. Arthur had not said a single word since yesterday – not even to protest at being made to sit in a wheelchair.

Francis glanced in his rear-view mirror. Arthur had his face turned to the window, forehead resting on the glass. His eyes were closed, but Francis didn't know if he was sleeping or not. There was a little patch of fogged glass from puffs of breath, and Francis listened to him breathe.

"Perhaps something to wash out that 'orrible hospital food from the last few days, mm?"

No answer.

"Arthur?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Francis saw Arthur frown, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. He looked a little too pale in the late afternoon sun, and Francis thought back to that small, white hospital room, and the boy he has come to regard as his own little brother. He suppressed a sigh and turned the corner.

A little while later, they pulled into a small parking lot wedged between tall apartment buildings made of old red brick. It was almost dark – and many of the windows were lit yellow in the early evening shadows. Francis pulled into the space marked '19' – where Iuan's car usually sat. He cut the engine, and the abrupt silence was deafening. Undoing his seat belt, Francis turned around. Arthur still had not moved from where he was resting against the window, arms wrapped around himself.

"_Mon lapin_," said Francis, gently, "We're here."

No response.

He reached forward to shake Arthur's shoulder – but his hand had barely made contact before Arthur flinched violently, jerking himself back and knocking his head hard against the window. His eyes were wide with alarm, pupils darting sightlessly. Francis did not move.

After a long moment, Arthur seemed to relax a little, exhaling slowly.

"Give me some bloody warning next time," he said, voice hoarse.

"I'm sorry," said Francis.

Arthur fumbled for the door handle of the car, and before Francis could say anything else, pushing himself out of the car. He stumbled a little, one hand on the car door to steady his bad leg. He had broken it badly in the accident, and although it had healed over the past month, being comatose in a hospital bed meant that Arthur had long weeks of physical therapy ahead of him.

And hence really should not be walking around right now.

"Oh really – Arthur, wait until I unpack the chair!" said Francis, hurrying around the car.

"I don't need it," said Arthur, stubbornness peeking through as he let go of the car and made his way hesitantly towards the side entrance. He had his hand held out in front of him, testing the air, a look of concentration and vulnerability on his face. Francis had never seen it there before; the younger Kirkland usually wrapped himself up in a fierce scowl, a shield against everything in the world.

Then he stumbled over an uneven crack in the concrete and nearly went sprawling. Francis grabbed his arm just in time.

"Yes, yes you certainly do."

Arthur shook Francis' hand off his arm angrily.

"Piss off," he said, gritting his teeth, "What are you still doing here? Just give me my bags and I'll be fine."

Popping the boot, Francis hauled the collapsible wheelchair out, unfolding it with a snap and setting it on the ground. Then he took advantage of Arthur's disorientation to take him firmly by the shoulders and shove him into the chair. Arthur hissed like a cat doused with water, one arm swinging up and nearly clocking Francis in the face.

"Bugger off!" he shouted, trying to rise from his seat. Francis buckled him in. "Leave me alone!"

"Arthur, please," said Francis, dodging another flailing fist, "If nothing else…indulge me."

Arthur stilled, sitting straight backed and stiff in the canvas seat. Then he scrunched up his nose.

A moment later, Francis found out why when a fat drop of rain landed on his face.

"_Merde_," he cursed, pulling both their bags out of the boot and swinging them over his shoulder.

"Indeed," said Arthur, deadpan.

The rain started to beat a steady rhythm on the roof of the car, and Francis quickly took hold of the wheel chair handles, wheeling them both towards the door. A moment searching for the appropriate keys later, they were inside the dimly lit lobby with its grimy windows and half dead plot plant sitting near the elevator doors.

Carding his damp hair back with his fingers, Francis jabbed the 'up' button for the lift and wheeled Arthur in when it arrived with a rattle and a cough.

"This lift is going to break down one day with us inside it," Francis grumbled, watching the numbers light up above the doors. _3, 4, 5…_

"How many times have you said that?" said Arthur, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it's true. You wait and see."

"No I won't," said Arthur.

A pause.

"Arthur – you know if you need – "

"I don't _need_ anything from you," Arthur interrupted sharply. The lift chimed to a stop on the seventh floor and Francis pushed the chair out. There was a tiny space separating doors 18 and 19. There was a wooden shoe-rack there, as well as a battered umbrella stand. Unlocking the door, Francis wheeled Arthur into his flat without another word, past the kitchen and into the living area. Arthur undid the buckle and pushed himself out of the chair.

"Look," Francis started, but Arthur ignored him, taking a few steps until his knee hit the sofa.

Francis watched as Arthur laid both hands on it, head turning slowly as he tried to work out where he was in the room. He trailed his hands down the chair, feeling for the table next to it. Slowly, slowly, he made his way to the wall and Francis saw the way his shoulders relaxed a little when his hands found the wallpaper. He made his way forwards this time, one hand on the wall – and Francis wasn't quite quick enough to intervene when Arthur's hand caught on the edge of a framed photograph and it came crashing to the floor in a resounding shatter of splintering glass.

"_Mon Deiu_!" Francis exclaimed, as Arthur cringed, dismay washing over his face to be quickly replaced by an embarrassed blush. He dropped to his knees, hands patting the ground before him, scrabbling for the edges of the frame.

Francis had had enough.

"Arthur, stop it. _Arthur _you'll just hurt yourself," he said, pulling at Arthur's arm and dragging him upright, "Why don't you take a nap while I make some dinner for the both of us, mm? Then we can both get some sleep."

"Where do you think you'll be sleeping?"

"Well," Francis hesitated, "I can use Iu- the other room, perhaps. Come on; tell big brother Francis what you would like for dinner."

But something in Arthur seemed to crack, like the glass on the carpet. He pushed Francis away, hard, face contorting with anger.

"_Stop – _I don't need – why won't you just _leave me alone_?" his voice rose to a shout on the last word, hands clenched at his sides.

"_Mon cher_, I'm only trying to help," Francis pleaded, exasperation clawing up his throat along with the exhaustion of the last few days. Weeks. Months. It felt like it had only been yesterday.

"No. _No,_" Arthur shouted, "I don't need your help! I don't want it! I'm not a fucking invalid, I – I don't – "

His breathing was becoming erratic, shallow like a bird caught in a trap. His eyes darted around the room, blindly, chest heaving. Francis dared not move, heart clenching painfully in his own chest.

"Stop staring at me!" Arthur screamed, his hands coming up in an aborted gesture, "I'm not…

Who the fuck said you could sleep in Iuan's room? Where's he going to sleep? Where's he going to sleep if you're – I don't – "

Tears were welling up at the corner of Arthur's eyes and he rubbed them away furiously, face twisted with grief.

"Arthur…" said Francis.

"Get out," said Arthur, voice breaking with hysteria, "_Get out get out get out get out_ - !"

Francis pulled the younger Kirkland into his arms, holding him in a tight embrace. Arthur snarled and kicked at his shins, but Francis didn't let go, running one hand up and down Arthur's back as the latter punched him in the stomach.

"_Shhh_," said Francis, "I'll sleep on the couch. Whatever you like. Hush now."

"_LEAVE ME ALONE," _Arthur screamed, hands fisted in Francis' jacket. Then, instead of pushing him away, Arthur was clinging to Francis like a child in a thunderstorm, his sobs wracking his entire frame, his voice growing hoarse as he cried.

Eventually, the sobs faded until they were barely audible, muffled by Francis' now damp clothes. Arthur's breathing evening out; exhausted.

They stood there; Arthur slumped in Francis' arms. His hair was tousled and damp from the rain. It probably needed to be washed soon.

He didn't know how long they stood there, but later, Francis managed to carry Arthur to his room. He pulled off Arthur's jacket and shoes, before tucking him into bed. He closed the door to the bedroom quietly, so as not to wake him. In the aftermath, Francis surveyed the living room, now quiet as the night outside. He carefully picked up the broken picture frame, shaking free any loose shards of glass. The photograph was still intact, and thankfully not scratched.

It was a black and white photograph of the two Kirkland brothers. Francis actually remembered taking it two years ago, on a summer visit to the beach. Iuan had one arm slung around his younger brother's shoulder, grinning manically at the camera while Arthur looked thoroughly unimpressed. There were a few freckles on his nose from the sun. In the background, a dog was running after a tennis ball – a frozen blur on the film.

Gently, Francis set the frame on the coffee table sinking into the empty armchair next to it. The clock on the wall ticked incessantly, unrelentingly, counting the minutes to something, somewhere. He wondered why it hadn't stopped.

Francis buried his face in his hands.

:i:

It's strange how your home becomes a stranger's house; familiar things stripped away like Arthur's sight.

To be honest, it wasn't even really a house.

Iuan had bought it when they first moved out of their cousin's place with most of their savings and everything that was in their pockets. It was a small, two bedroomed flat; cramped but cozy. It had a collection of mismatched furniture they had picked out over the years – a squashy armchair that only smelt a little like fur-balls, two tall bookshelves lining the living room wall and a tea table (neither brother drank coffee.) There was a heavy black music stand in the corner, and Arthur could still remember finding it in an old antique store and buying it for his brother's 20th birthday. There was a tiny kitchen with a rumbling fridge taking up most of the space. Their parent's set of china was proudly displayed in the glass cabinet above the sink. A union-jack welcome mat sat in front of the door, the colours faded with use. Arthur had wanted to get a new one…but now, he supposed it didn't matter since he couldn't see it anymore.

There was a second hand IKEA dining table with matching chairs for the two of them.

Now he only needed one.

:i:

Dallas, Texas, 9 years ago.

Alfred woke his brother up by jumping on his bed – which, if he did say so himself, was a no mean feat since Mattie slept on the top bunk. Alfred stilled, for a moment, to mull over just how unfair it was that Mathew always got the top bunk, before resuming his bouncing.

"_WAKE UP_," he said, pulling the duvet off his brother in a flourish. "Come on, come on it's morrrrnnningggg."

"Ughh," said Matthew, burying his face back into his pillow.

"Don't you want to open the presents?" said Alfred, pushing at his brother's shoulder insistently. "Grandma said she was making pancakes. COME ON MATTIE, gosh you're so slow, jeez come on or I'll eat them without you!"

"Wha'time is it?" his brother mumbled.

"SIX AYE-EM," Alfred announced, pulling at Kuma's legs to try to dislodge him from Mathew's grip. Matthew held on tighter. Alfred pulled harder. Matthew gripped Kuma with both arms, pulling in the opposite direction.

Alfred let go and Matthew, caught by surprise, shot backwards until his head hit the edge of the bunk bed with a rattling _clang._

"OWW," cried Matthew, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. His giant t-shirt, which he always wore to bed, displayed an enormous Canadian maple leaf in the middle. Alfred himself was wearing a Captain America t-shirt (much more badass than any leaf). "That hurt!"

"At least you're awake now," said Alfred unapologetically, "and we can go open our presents!"

"Al, grandma's probably not even awake yet…" said Matthew, still rubbing at the back of his head with a pout on his face.

"She totally isssss," said Alfred, pulling at his twin. "Come on I want to find out what my present is. And grandpa said we can go shoot pheasants now that we're TEN!"

Matthew winced at Alfred's loud voice. He was sure every single pheasant within a five mile radius had probably heard that and was now running for cover. And the thought of his twin with any sort of firearm was just…horrifying. Matthew shivered.

"Fine. I'm up anyway now, thanks to you."

"Yay!" exclaimed Alfred, giving the poor mattress one last bounce, then sliding to the edge of the bed and jumping straight to the ground with a loud _thump. _

"Oh my god Al!" cried Matthew, scooting to the edge of his bed and peering over. Alfred was on the ground, where he had not quite managed to land on his feet. "Are you okay? Why don't you ever use the ladder?"

Alfred jumped to his feet.

"I'm fine! Only scaredy-cats use ladders Mattie! Heroes never use ladders!"

And with that, Al ran out of the room, his footsteps thundering through the house. A moment later, Matthew heard a distant exclamation of 'GRANDMAAAAA!' and an answering laugh. Sighing, he pulled on a hoodie, changed into jeans and made his way to the kitchen.

True to Al's word, there was indeed a stack of pancakes sitting on the breakfast counter.

"Matthew, honey!" exclaimed his grandmother. "You're up – happy birthday, sweetheart!"

And the next moment, Matthew had been swept up into a huge, floury hug. Grandma smelt like maple syrup, batter, and sugar, and Matthew hugged back tightly.

"Thanks Grandma," he said, smiling so hard his face soon began to ache.

" 'ese'r'soooo'ood," said Alfred. He was perched on one of the tall stools, a plate of pancakes in front of him. Both the pancakes and his mouth were covered in maple syrup.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, dear," said Grandma, wiping at Alfred's mouth with the corner of a tissue. Matthew climbed onto the stool next to his twin and was rewarded with his own plate of towering pancakes. His grandmother placed a bottle of home-made maple syrup beside him.

"Here you go. Don't drown them now!"

Matthew blushed.

They ate their breakfast in relative silence (the pancakes were delicious as usual), while the cicadas chirped up a storm outside. Sunlight was streaming into the house in earnest now, washing the wooden paneling in gold and amber. Everything smelt of summer and sticky sweet syrup. Grandma was drinking coffee (which Matthew found too bitter) across the table, a glossy magazine open at her elbow. Matthew poured another careful dollop of maple syrup across his breakfast. He loved staying with his grandparents – he was allowed maple syrup with every meal.

Predictably, Alfred finished first.

"Where's Grandpa?" he asked, downing the glass of orange juice his grandma handed him. Matthew gave his twin a disapproving look when he finished the entire thing in one go.

"Out with the horses," said Grandma, taking Alfred's empty plate to the sink. "You two should go find him when you're finished. Actually, I'll come with you and take this out." She set a large, glass jug of iced lemonade on the countertop, along with a stack of cups.

Alfred immediately turned to his brother.

"Hurry up!" he said, eyes darting to Matthew's half full plate and back again. Matthew tensed in apprehension and as soon as his brother's hand moved, he shifted his plate further down the table, out of reach. Alfred pouted.

"You've had your own," said Matthew, eating a little faster.

Alfred pouted some more.

By the time Matthew had finished his breakfast, Alfred had also polished off two glasses of lemonade and a banana. Grandma dropped the last few ice-cubes into the newly topped-off jug and handed it to Matthew. Alfred was bouncing on the balls of his feet, a stack of plastic cups in his hands.

"Come on then," said Grandma, dropping hats onto their heads and donning on a sunhat herself.

"Yessss," said Alfred and ran out the door.

Alfred was a firm believer in running. And jumping. And baseball and swimming in the pool in summer. Even though Mattie was three days older (three whole days!) than he was, it didn't mean Alfred was going to be smaller twin. No sir. Even now he was a little bit taller than his brother – if you counted the highest point of Alfred's hair.

The ranch was a wide, sprawling thing, overlooking a large piece of farmland yellow with the hot Texas sunshine. His grandparents owned a stable full of horses, which were in the paddock around the back of the house, past the row of tall apple trees, which dropped small, but sweet apples after a thunderstorm.

Alfred liked climbing trees.

"GRAAAAAAAAAAANDPAAAA," called Alfred, spotting a figure emerging from the wooden stables, a hat in one hand and a red bucket in the other. Putting on an extra spurt of speed, Alfred sprinted across the paddock. Grandpa made an _ooof _noise as Alfred gave him a running-leap hug.

"Hey, buddy!" said Grandpa, giving Alfred a giant bear hug. Alfred grinned into grandpa's flannel shirt. He smelt like dry hay, horses, and old leather. It was a nice smell.

"Al, you dropped the cups!" came Matthew's disapproving voice once he had caught up. Alfred turned around, shrugging.

"It's only grass," he said, picking up the dropped plastic cups and stacking them back together.

"Hello grandpa," said Matthew – squeaking when he got his own bear hug.

"Grandma made lemonade!" Alfred announced, as his grandmother came within hearing distance – bearing the jug. Alfred thrust out the cups and grandpa chuckled, ruffling Alfred's hair.

"Do you boys want your birthday present first…or lemonade first?" asked grandpa, a twinkle in his eyes.

Alfred dropped the cups again in his excitement.

"PRESENTS?" he exclaimed.

Matthew winced, picking the cups off the grass.

"But Grandpa has been out all morning…" he protested. Grandpa laughed, kissing Matthew on the cheek.

"It won't take long. Don't think your brother will be able to wait."

"Where is it is it big what is it is it a – " Alfred latched onto his grandmother, "Grandma Grandma do you know tell me telllllllll - "

"Come on, it's over here," said Grandpa, hoisting Matthew up on his hips (even though they were ten – Alfred thought his twin was such a baby sometimes) and holding out his hand. Alfred latched onto him, and they made their way into the dusty stables. Anticipation bubbled up inside Alfred like Coke in a bottle. Alfred paused – Coke: yum.

Most of the horses were out grazing in the lower paddock – they were all very tall and very large and Grandma didn't let Alfred or Matthew near them. Alfred couldn't wait until he was big enough to ride a horse – which was yet another reason to grow up faster. Matthew liked reading about horses…but always remained on the back veranda whenever Grandpa led Delaware over for them to pat.

"Why's Dela inside, Grandpa?" asked Alfred, peering over the top of a stall where the black horse was standing, pawing at the ground. At the sound of Alfred's voice the horse lowered its head over the stall door. Alfred rubbed the white star on Delaware's nose and giggled when the horse blew hay fluff into Alfred's hair. Matthew surveyed them warily.

"'ere she is – Alfie!"

Giving Delaware one last pat, Alfred followed his grandpa to the end of the stables, where there was a wider stall. The door was open, and Matthew and Alfred simply stood there.

Inside the stall, there were two small horses. They both had had dark brown coats with white socks – though one had a long stripe of light brown down its nose, while the other had a splotch on its forehead.

The horses stared at the twins.

The twins stared back.

"Happy birthday, boys!" said grandpa, grinning from ear to ear.

"_HORSIE_," Alfred gave a whoop of joy. One of the horses looked distinctly taken aback, whinnying a little, flicking its ears back. Alfred tugged on his grandpa's sleeve.

"What are their names?"

"We thought we'd let you name them – they're yours, after all!" said Grandpa, giving Matthew a little push into the stall. Alfred needed no such encouragement, walking straight up to the horse on the right and throwing his arms around its neck.

"Are they girls or boys?" asked Matthew, taking a tentative step forwards.

"That one's a girl," said Grandpa, pointing at Alfred and the horse he was hugging, "and your one's a boy."

"I'm gonna call mine Liberty," said Alfred decisively. "Lady Liberty because she has a crown on her head, see?"

And he could tell that Liberty liked her name because she drooled all over the back of his t-shirt.

"They're twins, too," said grandma, leaning against the neighbouring stall, jug still in hand. She was smiling as well. "You boys were in school, but Dela down there gave birth to twins in spring. Now you boys match! Isn't that sweet?"

"Um," said Matthew, who was engaged in what seemed to be a staring contest with his horse.

"Whatcha gonna name him?" asked Grandpa, crouching down so he was the same height as Matthew. The staring contest continued. Then:

"Kumajirou," said Matt.

Alfred, who was giving Liberty a tummy rub, paused.

"Kuma-what?" he said. "That's a stupid name!"

"No it's not!" protested Matthew.

"What does it even mean? It's so weird."

"It's not!" said Matthew again, sounding upset.

"Now, Mattie can give his horse whatever name he likes, eh?" said Grandpa, "a nice exotic name, that. Kuma…?"

"jiku," Matthew supplied.

Then he gave Kumajirou a pat on the nose. Kuma licked his hand.

"Oh!" said Matthew, withdrawing with an alarmed look on his face, "It wants to eat me!"

"Don't be a baby," Alfred said disdainfully. "He likes you!"

"Don't be mean now. Here, give him a carrot," said Grandma, drawing out two pieces and handing one to Matthew and one to Alfred. "Hold your palm out flat, or he'll get your fingers by accident."

Kumajirou and Liberty ate their carrots. Grandpa, Grandma, Matthew, and Alfred each had a glass of lemonade, the ice-cubes reduced to small slivers of bobbing glitter. They went back to the house because Grandma said it was far too hot and dusty to be riding horses and all you boys – _yes Alfred Jones Senior that means you as well_ – should come back inside and help decorate the cake before Mom and Dad arrive.

Alfred put dibs on being in charge of the icing, and an hour later the kitchen was a lot more sugary than it had been that morning. They finished the cake and put it away in the fridge. Grandpa saddled Liberty and led Alfred around the back paddock while Matthew sat in the shade of the apple trees with Kumajirou (who was getting spoiled rotten with an entire bag of carrots). Then they went back inside to wash up.

Six o'clock came and went.

"Maybe we should cut the cake, dear," said Grandma, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was half past eight.

Alfred scowled.

"No! We have to wait for Mom and Dad. They promised they'd be here."

"Well, I'm sure they won't mind if you boys have a slice first…"

"No, no, no," said Alfred. He was sitting at the foot of the stairs so he could watch the door. He had even turned on the porch light, just in case – but so far nothing had happened. "You can't cut the cake first, it would make the birthday wish not count," he explained.

Grandma sighed.

"How about I show you how to clean my hunting rifle," Grandpa suggested.

"Really?" exclaimed Alfred, momentarily distracted.

"_ALFRED_," scolded Grandma – and both Alfred and his grandpa turned, looking guilty. "No playing around with guns. They're only ten!"

"I want to go hunting," said Alfred, mind made up.

"What did the animals ever do to you?" muttered Matthew, sounding sulky. He was sitting at the dining table with a book propped up against a heavy bowl of pears and apples.

"They taste nice," said Alfred, "Duh. Especially cows."

Matthew looks a little horrified.

"What?" asked Alfred, "You eat cow too!"

"I eat beef!" corrected Matthew.

"Same thing."

"You wouldn't eat Maisie!"

Alfred thought for a moment.

"Nah, she's too young."

"You're _mean_."

"Where's Mommmmm?" Alfred whined, flopping back onto the stairs and staring up at the wooden ceiling. He hated when his parents were late to things, he hated waiting and most of all he _hated _being disappointed. No one should be disappointed on their birthday.

Then he heard the sound of a car pulling up to the house, tyres crunching on gravel. Alfred leaped up from where he was lying on the stairs and was at the door so fast he nearly knocked over the hat stand in the hallway. Footsteps.

"Here, honey," said grandma, coming to unlatch the door when Alfred couldn't reach.

"Who is it?" Matthew's voice floated down the hallway as he padded over, book tucked under one hand. The door opened.

Alfred's heart flipped over.

"DAD!" he shouted, tackling him before he could even get a foot into the door, "Dad you're laaaate! But that's okay! Daaaaad!"

His father patted Alfred on the head, dropping his suitcase and a large duffel bag onto the floor.

"Happy birthday, Alfred," he said. His smile was tired around the edges, but it didn't dampen the fluttering in Alfred's chest.

Matthew edged up beside him and dad gave him a brief hug.

"You too, Mattie. Did you guys have a fun day?"

"Yeah!" said Alfred. "We got ponies!"

"Baby horses," Matthew corrected.

"Same thing," said Alfred dismissively, more engrossed in hugging his father around the waist. "Dad, dad what did you get me?"

"Let your father in the house first, sweetie," said Grandma, ushering them into the hall and closing the door. Grandpa emerged from the kitchen.

"Here at last, I see," he said, sounding unimpressed.

"My flight was delayed," said dad, rubbing his jaw with one hand.

They all made their way into the kitchen and Dad sat his big duffel on the dining table before unzipping it and taking out two brightly wrapped boxes. One was tall and rectangular while the other was square and squat. He handed Alfred the squat box…and Alfred was a little jealous of Matthew and his huge tall present until he unwrapped his own and found a genuine cowboy hat sitting in a heavy cardboard box.

"Awesome!" he exclaimed, jamming the hat onto his own head. He somehow managed to knock all the wrapping paper to the ground in the process but no one seemed to mind.

"Thanks Dad!"

"You look like a real cowboy," said Grandpa, giving Alfred the thumbs up when Alfred jumped onto his chair and pretended to throw a lasso.

"Al – careful!" said Dad, reaching out to steady the back of the chair as it wobbled dangerously on its hind legs when Alfred got a little too enthusiastic with his lassoing.

Meanwhile, Matthew had just peeled back the wrapping at the top of his box and was pulling out something long and –

"Are these…?"

"Skates," said Dad, pulling the shoes out of the huge box. "Thought since you always liked to watch hockey on the TV you might like to give it a go."

Matthews eyes were very, very round.

"Oh _wow_ can I?" he said, sounding more animated than he had all day, "Really? Will you teach me?"

His father sat Matthew in his lap and helped him pull on the new skates.

"I used to play ice hockey during high-school," he said, tying the laces. "Your mother thinks it's a bit – _Al_!"

Grandpa had managed to find a long coil of rope from somewhere and was showing Alfred how to throw the lasso. The loop had caught on the lighting fixture and Alfred overbalanced on the chair. Both chair and Alfred came crashing to the ground.

"_ALFRED_!" exclaimed grandma.

They ended up eating the birthday cake at half past eleven, with the lights off so that the candles threw flickering shadows on their faces. At any other time, Alfred would have found it scary – but with his grandparents, Mattie and dad all there, he knew nothing was bad was going to happen.

"I get this half," he said, pointing to his side of the cake, "and you get those candles. Don't blow mine okay Mattie?"

Matthew rolled his eyes.

"I won't," he said.

"Don't forget to make a wish!" sang Grandpa as Matthew got ready to blow out his candles. It was a ritual – he went first because he was the oldest twin, and Alfred went second. Alfred didn't mind, so long as Mattie didn't accidentally steal his birthday candle wishes.

Matthew blew out his candles, looking very solemn.

"What did you wish for buddy?" asked Dad.

"Matt can't tell!" said Alfred indignantly. "Or it won't come true! Now shh, it's my turn."

Alfred closed his eyes. He _was _going to wish for a new video game, but instead he wished that his mother would arrive early tomorrow so at least they had another day to celebrate. He would forgive his mom for being late, thought Alfred, if she came tomorrow. With another cake.

Then Alfred realise that was probably a second wish. Worried that it would cancel out the first one, he quickly re-wished it and blew out the candles.

They cut the cake. It tasted delicious (strawberries, chocolate and cream) and Alfred ate one slice too many so that his stomach felt a little bit funny afterwards. They watched a late night cartoon on the television, with Alfred, Dad and Mattie sitting on the big couch. Alfred wore his new cowboy hat to bed.

But when he woke next morning, his mom still wasn't there.

:i:

London, 4 years ago.

There were days when Arthur thought he would never get used to the darkness.

But most days, he didn't care anymore.

"Arthur?"

He lay in his bed, as if still asleep.

After a long moment, Francis sighed and set something heavy down on the bedside table. It clinked and smelled savoury. Soup, maybe.

"I'll leave it here just in case you're hungry," said Francis.

Arthur waited. But Francis only stood there, unmoving for a few minutes his gaze prickling the back of Arthur's neck. Each breath was too loud in the quiet room, like the unwanted ticking the second hand, ushering in another hour – another day.

He could imagine Francis in every detail, the long shadow he would have thrown across the bed from the door left ajar (if only Arthur could see it). He could imagine the clothes Francis' was wearing right now – comfortable slacks and a loose shirt. But the collar would still be pressed and clean, as white as the roses on the balcony. Francis was immaculate like that, careful with things one could see, feel and touch. Francis…

Footsteps. The squeak of the door opening wider, then the soft _thud_ of it being closed. Lather, rinse and repeat; _one week, two weeks, four_.

Arthur exhaled.

There was a physical ache inside him, where the world had become a blank, black page where things that were once clear…got lost.

He turned over beneath his blanket, stretching his arm out until it hit something soft. Fingers curling around one plush limb, he drew the stuffed rabbit close to himself. He ran his index finger carefully along the arm of the rabbit; it's head, little button nose and thread-sewn eyes. It had a line of stitches around its left leg, where it had started to come off and Iuan and mended it back together. It's ears were floppy, the fur on them worn with age and love. There were two plush wings on the bunny's back and Arthur stroked them.

He knew Mint Bunny was green. He _knew. _But even now, as he clutched to his face, Arthur couldn't quite recall the particular_ shade_ of green in his minds eye. Was it more like the grass in the park, or his favourite faded sweater? Was it green like Iuan's mug, still sitting in the dishwasher? Or was it paler than that?

An unbidden sob rose in his throat, tired and soundless. He should have looked more carefully, when there had been more time. He should have _looked. _

Eventually, Arthur fell asleep. (He dreamed of Mint Bunny, drinking from the bowl of soup on his bedside table. But when Arthur woke again, the soup was gone, and Mint Bunny was damp with tears.)

Sometimes, Arthur had nightmares about forgetting Iuan's face. Sometimes, it's his own, his parents'…his little brother Peter's, who died in that house fire. He would find himself flicking through a photo album full of places and blank faces – as if the people themselves were out of focus, their features evading the tips of his fingers. How long had it been? Arthur could not remember. But not long, not long at all.

It often woke him up in cold sweat, the blank faces – and he wondered how long it would be before he forgot what his own face looked like.

Shivering in the cool night air, Arthur raised a hand to trace the shape of his own face. Straight nose, dry lips, a scar near the edge of his jaw. He ran the pad of his finger over his own closed eyelids, the arch of his eyebrows. _Like living caterpillars, _Francis had said when they first met and Iuan had laughed uproariously, throwing his head back and ruffling Arthur's hair.

The thought of his brother made his chest and throat constrict painfully, and he quickly pushed it away. Feeling around the bed, Arthur sought out Flying Mint Bunny, grasping it gratefully when he finally found it, half buried under his blanket.

Arthur wondered if he looked any different; or whether he was just as ugly as before. In his minds eye, his reflection scowled and turned away. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Arthur let himself fall back onto his pillow with a sigh. It was probably morning. He couldn't really tell.

A knock at the door.

"_Mon cher_?" Francis' voice filtered through the wood.

Arthur kept his eyes closed. He did that a lot, nowadays. He didn't bother answering, knowing that Francis would come in regardless. He heard the door handle twisting, the telltale squeak of the hinges. Footsteps (_one, two, three, four, five – pause_). A sigh. Something being set down on the table (again), the clink of silverware (his mother's). Arthur felt the bed dip as Francis sat down – and tensed instinctively when a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"I made lunch. Are you hungry? You missed breakfast this morning."

And the morning before. And the morning before that. Arthur had no appetite. Iuan always made him breakfast before school. Breakfast was Iuan's. The kitchen was Iuan's – _seriously the only thing you can do is boil water and make tea and even that's a bit dangerous, aye? – _the flat was his, the chair opposite Arthur's was _his, _and Francis had no business being here.

Arthur said nothing.

"For god's sake, you have to eat!" said Francis, sounding exasperated and tired, "You've been in here for weeks, you won't talk to me and – I don't know what to do with you!"

_Then leave_, thought Arthur. But he couldn't bring himself to say the words out loud – because what _if _Francis left? The very thought made fear well up in his throat, cold and unrelenting as the knowledge of being alone in this bottomless blank world. Francis was his last link to _before, _the only familiar person with a face to their voice. And Arthur didn't know what he would do if that was taken away from him too.

His silence seemed to irritate Francis, who stood up abruptly.

"I know that you are upset. I know it's hard – I can't imagine _how _hard. But Iuan wouldn't have wanted to see you like this."

Then he swept away, the door slamming shut behind him. The sound made Arthur flinch, fingers tightening around Mint Bunny. He breathed in, slowly, trying to smooth down beginning of tears. He hardly ever cried, _before_.

His own pillow smelled stale, the feel of cotton sheets as familiar as the sound of his own breathing and the shape of Mint Bunny in his hands. They kept him company, but did nothing to lessen the hollow echo beneath his skin. There was the sound of a car horn blaring outside, and someone swore. For a brief moment, Arthur couldn't recall what the scene might have looked like from his own bedroom window.

….Then he realised he could pretend.

:i:

Dallas, Texas, 9 years ago.

Alfred overheard his grandmother on the phone.

"…you _promised _them you'd be here this year…"

She was speaking quietly, so he creep to the bottom of the stairs to hear what she was saying. But even from where he crouched, Alfred could tell Grandma wasn't happy at all. She was using the tone of voice she used when he accidentally spilled juice all over the rug once. It was the same 'you listen here young man!' voice she used when they broke one of the kitchen windows playing baseball with Grandpa outside. He inched closer, trying to figure out who was in trouble.

"…stayed up all night waiting," she said. Pacing. "…don't you dare give me that excuse!"

"Al! What are you doing?"

Alfred jumped.

"Oh my god Mattie! Don't sneak up on me like that," said Alfred, "I'm listenin'. Grandma is telling someone off."

When that didn't get a reaction from his brother, Alfred clarified, "Someone who isn't _me_."

Matthew sat down on the step above Alfred with a sigh. He was always sighing and rolling his eyes these days, and Alfred didn't like it. It was as if Matthew thought he knew things Alfred didn't – and even if he did, that was just _wrong _because they were twins and twins were supposed to share everything. Including secrets.

"She's talking to mom," said Matt, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

Alfred perked up.

"Mom? Is she gonna be here in time for lunch? 'Cus I think grandpa is making hambur – "

"_Jeez Al_!" Matt snapped, "Mom's not going to be here in time for anything! She always says she will be and she never is. You're so stupid!"

Something hot and ugly flared up inside Alfred. He jumped up from his position next to the kitchen door.

"I'm not stupid! A-and Mom totally will be here she told me herself _so there_!"

"Mom's busy with work because mom's always busy with work! She wasn't here last year or the year before but you always think she's gonna be - I can't believe you're so _dumb_ Al!"

Alfred clenched his fists.

"I'm not dumb! I'm not stupid! You take that back!"

Matthew had stood up too, face set in a tight frown.

"You know it's true," he said, stubbornly, "dad and mom argue all the time, they're hardly ever in the house and you never notice! She's not going to come!"

Alfred leapt forwards, grabbing his brother by the shirt. His momentum toppled them both back onto the stairs.

"Stop saying – you're always jinxing it! It's going to cancel out my wish - "

Alfred stopped abruptly, hand flying to his mouth. _You can't tell what you wished for or it won't come true. _Something cold and heavy sank to the bottom of Alfred's stomach – and he could feel the hot tears well up behind his own eyes but he couldn't let Mattie see because _heroes don't cry. _

But mostly Alfred was just scared that Matthew would laugh.

"Al…"

"Shut up, I hate you!"

"Alfred Franklin Jones, watch what you say to your brother!"

They both spun around. Grandma stood in the kitchen, one hand on her hip, the other still clutching the phone. The world was going a bit fuzzy and Alfred blinked the tears out of his eyes angrily.

"Apologise," said Grandma sternly.

"No!" said Alfred, "Matthew called me stupid and he keeps saying mom wont' be here and I _hate _him!"

Pushing past his twin, Alfred ran back up the stairs, back to his room and slammed the door.

:i:

London, 4 years ago.

Every Wednesday, Francis went shopping for groceries, returning with at least three plastic bags full of various ingredients for the week. And every Wednesday, it rained without fail. Fucking London weather.

This particular Wednesday was no different. Francis unlocked the door to the flat, setting his umbrella down beside the coat stand. The light in the short hallway was off, and he held back a sigh.

"I'm back," he called to into the perpetual silence.

Toeing off his shoes, he made his way straight to the kitchen, setting the groceries on the bench-top. He took out the milk and other things that needed to be refrigerated. Then he turned back to the counter and the items remaining to be shelved.

"What did you get?"

Francis nearly dropped the jar of sauce he was holding.

Arthur wasn't in his room. He was sitting by the window, curled up in the squashy armchair that he had presumably moved from where it usually sat in front of the television. The coffee table had also been moved – and Francis wondered if it had been knocked over as Arthur dragged the sofa across the carpet.

"You're up," said Francis, a little dazed.

Arthur merely shrugged and turned his face back to the window. His clothes were mismatched – a hideous knitted sweatshirt thrown over pale blue pyjama bottoms. The sleeves of the jersey were too long, and Arthur had rolled them up to free his hands. With a jolt, Francis realised it was Iuan's sweatshirt, all clashing oranges and neon greens. Arthur was cradling a mug of something in one hand and a grubby looking stuffed bunny rabbit in the other.

In that moment, Francis was reminded that Arthur was barely seventeen. Just a baby, really.

Then Arthur turned back to him, breaking the moment, his head cocked to one side in a silent question. His eyes, still green, but glassy, was looking at a vague point somewhere to Francis' left.

"I could make some scones for you," said Francis, "But perhaps dinner first?"

A long pause.

"Maybe," Arthur agreed, voice quiet. His fingers were stroking the rabbit's long floppy ears, over and over. Francis realised he was still holding the jar of tomato sauce and put it down on the counter.

"Perhaps some pasta? We haven't had Italian food yet."

"Whatever, frog," said Arthur – and the familiar insult made Francis smile.

"It won't take long," said Francis. Taking out a packet of pasta shells, he went about searching for a pot to boil water in, setting the plastic packet down beside the sink. Fresh tomatoes, check; olives, check; chicken to be sliced, check; mushrooms; check.

When he turned around, he found Arthur staring at him with blank unfocused eyes from across the kitchen counter. It nearly gave Francis a heart attack.

"_Mon Dieu_!" he exclaimed, clutching at his heart in an exaggerated motion, "Do not sneak up on me like that!"

Arthur shrugged, tapping his index finger against the table-top. But he looked a little pleased with himself all the same. Francis wondered if the boy had familiarised himself with the room and its furniture in his absence – he had barely made a sound, had not knocked anything over. It was a drastic improvement from the first few days back from the hospital. Arthur had not been able to do anything without Francis guiding him by the hand; and Arthur had not liked it at all.

The pasta shells clattered noisily into the pot.

"I want to help," said Arthur.

Francis paused, the empty packet in his left hand.

"Ah…I don't think that'd be wise, _mon cher_ – "

"Don't patronise me!" said Arthur crossly, folding his arms across his chest.

"But you have never been able to cook," protested Francis, "Even when you – well what I mean is – _merde!_"

Arthur had grabbed the closest thing he set his hands on – an onion – and lobbed it at Francis. It missed, hitting the wall with a sharp _thwack. _

_5 minutes later._

Francis watched Arthur stir the sauce, keeping an eye on the pasta. He had give Arthur a large plastic bowl, prepared the appropriate ingredients for the sauce give him a wooden spoon with instructions to "stir until smooth". Arthur, instead of arguing, had set about stirring with the utmost look of concentration on his face. The sauce was now velvety red. Francis turned off the stove and went about straining the pasta.

At the sound of water being poured into the sink, Arthur looked up.

"Is it nearly done?" he asked, pausing in his compulsive stirring motion.

"_Oui_," said Francis, slicing button mushrooms with a practice hand, "We can eat once I prepare the vegetables."

Arthur held out the bowl.

"…is this alright?" he asked.

Francis swiped the edge of his thumb along the rim of the bowl and licked. Then had to stop himself from gagging. He masked the sound behind a cough instead.

"Arthur – did you add anything to this…?"

"Only some pepper. I thought I would add to the flavour."

"Ah…" said Francis, grimacing openly and thankful for the first time that Arthur couldn't see his expression.

"Don't you like it?" asked Arthur, frowning.

And the conversation was so…normal, so _before, _that Francis didn't have the heart to even offer a snide remark as he might have done. Arthur had said more to him in the last half an hour than he had in the month they had been living together. He didn't want to upset him.

"It's certainly adds a bit of…punch, _cherie_," said Francis breezily, taking the bowl from Arthur's (destructive) hands, "Perfect as it is, no need to add anymore!"

"Hmph," said Arthur.

Francis smiled, for the second time that evening.

:i:

Over time, Arthur started noticing little things.

The Francis now was a very different portrait of the Francis from barely two months ago. This Francis was softer, gentler, and dropped French words like sugar cubes in tea and coffee. He was quieter, though perhaps it was Arthur who had forgotten the point of speaking without seeing, of breathing without living.

The scent of his cologne was sharper than Arthur remembered, floating in a cloud around him whenever he walked into a room. It smelt strange, rose petals soaked in wine, but unbearably familiar. His hands were always silk smooth against Arthur's own, fingers lingering at the small of Arthur's back whenever they walked together. This Francis would always look the same – his portrait forever preserved in Arthur's minds eye until time blurred him out of focus.

This Francis wrapped him in affection, generous and warm. And Arthur didn't know how to respond – it forced him to swallow the bitter pull of guilt until it settled uncomfortably at the bottom of his stomach. Because Francis was _Iuan's_ friend, not his. Francis had a life beyond Arthur's apartment, beyond looking after a blind boy who couldn't even wash his own hair without slipping on the shower tiles. With every kind word, Arthur wondered why Francis was even here. With every home-made meal, Arthur wondered if Francis was acting out of guilt too, of a misplaced sense of duty to his dead brother who had died because Arthur didn't know when to be quiet.

Arthur wondered if Iuan would still be here if he had tried harder to convince him to wear a seatbelt, instead of trying to convince him to watch a film.

The windowsill was just wide enough for Arthur's teacup and the saucer for his scone. It hadn't stopped raining since Monday. Iuan had often joked that Arthur controlled the London weather because it had a habit of raining when Arthur was in a bad mood, tired or upset.

_But I don't mind, _his brother had said, _still warmer than Scotland. Plus, rain sounds nice, aye? Good for taking a nap to._

It often rained.

Arthur ran his hand over Mint Bunny's wings. He was aware of Francis sitting in the seat opposite – but it wasn't like Mint Bunny was a secret. Arthur liked how the rabbit slotted snugly into his hands. It gave him something to hold on to.

"The rain should let up soon," said Francis. The offensive smell of coffee was drifting over to Arthur, who wrinkled his nose.

"Mm." He made a noncommittal noise.

"I fancy a walk later," Francis continued, "the park, perhaps. Come with?"

Arthur tightened his fingers around Mint Bunny. Outside, the rain pattered softly against the window pane. The streets would be wet with puddles, glistening in any stray flecks of sunshine. The gutters would be full, and cars would be sending up a spray of grey water whenever they veered to close. The grass would be dull with mud, the trees sending fat droplets onto umbrellas. There would be children running, and the vendor who sold freshly roasted peanuts on the street corner (Arthur walked past him every afternoon on the way back from school; the packets were striped red and white like the union jack). Now he would only smell the peanuts and the smoke from the cars.

"Not today," said Arthur.

Or any of the days that Francis brought up the idea of going outside. The very thought made Arthur cold with dread.

Inside the safety of his (Iuan's) flat the pitch dark was familiar, full of landmarks he was starting to learn by touch. Outside…the dark was unknown. It made Arthur think of drowning in the sea; with nothing but endless, black water around him. No. Not today.

"Maybe it is still rather wet," Francis conceded, not pushing the matter.

Gratitude fluttered in Arthur's chest. He set Mint Bunny down in his lap and reached for his tea, careful to trace his finger along the wood of the windowsill first. Even so, he knocked into the saucer – and it wobbled for a moment, with Arthur's heart leaping into his throat – but thankfully it did not fall.

Arthur took a long gulp of tea.

"The weather is a bit fairer back home," said Francis pleasantly. Arthur could hear the _chink, chink, chink_ of a spoon being stirred. It reminded him of the tea shop, and with a pang, Arthur remembered that Francis was paying all the bills since the accident. He felt his own cheeks flush with shame and hoped Francis didn't notice.

"France?" said Arthur, trying to distract him.

"Oui. It is lovely in spring. Have you ever been to Nice?"

Arthur shook his head.

"We live about two hours away," said Francis. There was the rustling of fabric. The sofa squeaked. "Well, when I say 'we', I mean my mother and sister. Father's often in Paris, you see."

"…designing coats," said Arthur, remembering a conversation in which Francis had said something about his family being in the fashion industry. It seemed so long ago, now.

"Designing coats. Well, more than that, but yes," said Francis. Arthur imagined him hand-waving in that dismissive sort of way he had whenever the topic of his parents came up. He never liked talking about them, so Arthur wasn't sure why Francis doing so now.

"The town is lovely too, you know. Small, but…quaint I guess. Quiet. All cobblestones and freshly baked croissants in the morning."

"If it's so lovely why did you leave?" asked Arthur. It came out a little meaner than he meant it to, and he bit his tongue to shut himself up. He wished he could see Francis' face, his expression. It was one of the reasons he had refused to venture outside. He could imagine the gaze of every stranger on the street; could feel the imaginary weight of their pity, disdain and –

"The town didn't fit me anymore," said Francis, "It was…suffocating. So I left."

Arthur kept quiet.

"Haven't been back for nearly…oh, five years now."

"You haven't seen your sister in five years?" said Arthur, aghast and breaking his vow of silence.

"I write," said Francis, defensively, "And it isn't as if I couldn't go see her if I wanted to."

Arthur set his cup down with a barely steady hand.

"Yes," Arthur replied, voice stilted, "I suppose you could."

A long pause. A sigh.

"I'm sorry," said Francis, voice subdued. "Arthur - "

"What is your sister like?" Arthur interrupted, not wanting the conversation to turn in that particular direction, "Not as ugly as you, I'm sure that goes without saying."

"Oh!" Francis exclaimed, melodramatic, "How can you say such things? My poor heart. _Mon lapin_, you are too cruel."

"I say only the truth."

"_Non_! I'm pretty," said Francis.

Arthur felt something tugging at the edge of his mouth. It tasted like a smile.

"The only good thing about this," Arthur gestured at his own eyes, "is that I don't have to see your ugly mug every day."

"Such insulting comments," said Francis, sounding dour, "You are well on the way to recovery, my dear Brit."

"Piss off," said Arthur, turning back to the sound of rain.

A long, comfortable pause.

"There's a rose garden," said Francis.

"Fat lot of good that will do me, now that I'm blind," said Arthur.

"Oh but they smell lovely," Francis insisted, "Imagine taking your silly English tea out amongst that. There's also a lake. And ducks. You could feed them."

Another pause.

"And I would get to see my sister," said Francis. Then: "It would be like a vacation. Get you away from all this London smoke. What do you think?"

Arthur picked up Mint Bunny surreptitiously. His brother would like the idea of France. He could imagine Iuan and his violin on the corner of some little French street, playing folk music that bounced off the pavement and between the heels of your shoes.

"Yeah," said Arthur, quietly, "it sounds – I mean. I…"

He trailed off, unable to find the words he needed (not to say, but just to have, just to clutch close to his heart). He didn't realise he was crying until he felt Francis lean in close, a handkerchief at Arthur's cheek. Arthur jerked backwards, only to be stopped by Francis dropping a kiss into his hair.

"It's alright," he said, soothingly. And Arthur thought, for the first time, that perhaps he didn't need to say anything at all.

:i:

Later, Arthur would find his 17th birthday present gathering dust in Iuan's bedroom.

It took him a while to unwrap it, being careful not to tear the wrapping paper. The ribbon was satin soft in his hands, the gift in a rectangular box. They felt like books, when Arthur took them out. The titles were imprinted on cloth covers, and he traced the letters one by one, spelling them out.

_The Illustrated Collection of Shakespeare's Sonnets._

Opening the first book, he fingered the thick, glossy pages. It felt expensive, heavy and quiet in his hands. Arthur wondered how much Iuan had spent on it. Cupping the spine carefully with one hand, he held the book close to his face and breathed in.

It smelt of words he could never read again.

:i:

London, Present Day.

It was their second day of shooting and Francis was starting to regret putting Alfred and live-animals in the same room. Any sign of nerves seemed to have vanished overnight and he was treating everyone he met on set like they were the best of friends. Including the props.

"Can I pet him? _Please _can I pet him?"

"Actually this one's a lady," said Jack the handler, "And don't shout, mate, it's rufflin' her feathers yeah?"

"Oh," said Alfred, dropping his voice conspiratorially, "Sorry!"

Arthur, who was standing off in the corner while Antonio fussed over his jacket, made an unimpressed noise. It was ten in the morning and they were already twenty minutes behind schedule. Lovino and the set assistant was putting the finishing touches on the lavish table, which was laden with extravagant silver platters, sugared confectionary and towers of chocolate artfully arranged so they spilled across the white linen tablecloth. They were in the main ballroom with its high frescoed ceiling, chandeliers and dark parquet floor. A long dining table had been moved in for the shoot, and two rows of white-satin chairs lined its side.

The lighting had been set up. But somehow the idiotic bird would not behave and neither would the clasp on Arthur's jacket. Francis took a deep breath and let it out again.

"Antonio," he called, "Can we have Arthur ready please."

"Yes – yes, yes, done," said Antonio, sounding frazzled. He led Arthur over to the center of the table, pulling out a chair for him. "Here?"

"I can sit down by myself," said Arthur, eyebrows bristling with indignation. Both stylist and photographer ignored him. As soon as he sat down, Helen descended upon Arthur with her brushes to finish some last minute touch ups to his makeup.

"_Oui_, we can start there," said Francis, "Jack – Alfred needs the eagle on his arm. Will she stay still?"

Jack, who had a hawk on one shoulder and a large, ferocious looking eagle on his other arm, grinned.

"Yeah, she's a good girl," he said, "Though she might get a bit restless later in which case we might hav'ta move her."

Francis imagined a 'restless' eagle wrecking havoc on set, ripping the sleeve of Alfred's Zegna … and felt a headache coming on. He rubbed the side of his face. He fought the urge uncork the bottle of red wine on the table and start drinking – props be damned.

"Francis," said Arthur. He always had a knack of being able to know when Francis was spiraling into a whirlpool of doom and panic. It was psychic, really.

"Don't talk please," said the makeup artist.

"Hmph," said Arthur.

"Right. Alfred, on the table – back to the cake and angled towards where Arthur is sitting, _oui_?"

"Am I gonna be too heavy?" asked Alfred warily, straightening his sleeves and approaching the table as one would approach a raging rhinoceros.

"No," said Francis, patience wearing thin, "Get on the fucking table."

Placing one foot on a chair, Alfred settled himself carefully in the empty spot on the table, surrounded by food and delicate china. He yelped when he nearly knocked over an entire arrangement of macaroons – and shot Francis a furtive look.

"Do be careful not to break anything," said Arthur, who had both feet propped up on the table and looked every inch the spoiled aristocrat. Francis smiled to himself – Arthur always delivered what he wanted. On the other hand, it always took Alfred some ten frames before he stopped looking like an awkward teenager on a table.

"Here, hold out your arm – steady now," said Jack, "When I say three, I want you to tap your arm with two fingers, alright? Nessa will fly over."

"Okay!" said Alfred, looking like he was going to wet himself with excitement.

Francis looked on, a little worried for the desserts on the table. It would take more time than they had if they had to re-set the table. Jack took a few long strides backwards so there were a good ten meters between him and the table.

"One, two…_three._"

Alfred tapped the protective leather around his forearm and the eagle leapt into the air, wings snapping out as she flapped them once, twice and came to an elegant stop, claws digging into Alfred's arm.

"Whoa!" Alfred exclaimed, all promises to be quiet forgotten, "That's awesome!"

The eagle turned a large, yellow eye in his direction.

"You're so cool," he told the eagle, "I want to take you home!"

"Okay keep that hand steady," said Jack, "She wont' like it if you wobble."

"Oh my _god_," said Alfred, delighted, "You're so beautiful. I love you."

"Stop making kissy noises at that thing," said Arthur irritably, "It's not a kitten for heaven's sake!"

"Aw it's okay, I think you're pretty too Arthur," said Alfred, shooting the Brit a sly sort of look. Then he seemed to realise what he had just said and blushed to the tips of his ears.

"You – !" Arthur started, chest puffing up like a peacock whose tail had just been stepped on. Francis intervened before it could get out of hand.

"Jack – I want the hawk on Arthur's right fist. Arthur, elbow on the armrest, lean back."

Arthur did as he was told, crossing his legs so that one heel rested on the edge of the table. Antonio gave him a black, bejeweled glove for his right hand. It was a lovely contrast to his white wrist and the exposed skin of his forearm. His three-quarter Dior jacket was unbuttoned, with a gold pin on his left lapel.

"Give'er two taps," said Jack, demonstrating with his own hand, "Make sure he's watchin'."

"On the knuckles," Francis clarified.

They all held their breath as Arthur tapped his gloved fist and the hawk leapt from Jack's own shoulder. The bird stumbled a little, claws scrabbling on the slope of Arthur's hand. It's wings snapped out for balanced, hitting Arthur in the face and making him jerk back in shock. The sudden movement unsettled the hawk, who gave a shrill cry, turning it's sharp yellow eyes (and sharper beak) towards Arthur's face. Everyone seemed to freeze and unfreeze at the same moment.

Francis almost dropped his camera. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Antonio hurrying towards them, whilst Jack was still on the other side of the long dining table.

"_Careful_ – !"

"Steady on mate – "

Alfred put two of his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Both Nessa and the hawk turned their heads sharply to look at him, attention diverted.

Arthur was sitting still as a statue, the lines of his shoulder tense with nerves, eyes darting. Further down the table, a chocolate dipped strawberry threatened to fall from its towering pyramid. Francis held his breath.

The hawk shuffled its feathers, talons flexing. It seemed to settle on Arthur's hand and grew as still as the man himself, save for the eyes which darted between Alfred and Nessa and then back again. Then the hawk blinked, yawning.

Jack let out a relieved laugh, breaking the silence.

"That's what I meant by not startlin' them," he said.

"Blasted bird. Nearly blinded me," Arthur replied, deadpan.

"Did you see what I did there?" Alfred said excitedly, "_Yeahhhh_ who's awesome."

Arthur muttered something incomprehensible. Francis thought he heard the word 'git' and 'gilbert'.

"What?" said Alfred, oblivious. He was grinning.

"I said that was some good work," said Arthur.

"I'm good with animals! They love me."

The hawk leaned over and began picking curiously at the gem at Arthur's wrist. Alfred's eagle watched the whole affair with a distinctly interested gaze, as if she too was deciding whether or not to start scratching expensive designer accessories. Antonio made a sad noise in the background and Francis decided enough was enough.

"Alright. Now that everything is in place. Alfred, facing me – _merci_."

Obediently, Alfred turned towards him. Nessa was still staring at Arthur intently. The Brit had seemingly gravitated towards the familiar in order to calm his nerves and was picking at a delicate china tea cup which Antonio pressed into his free hand. Rose-coloured tea was poured, matching the blush on Arthur's cheeks.

"Arthur," said Francis after a moment of thoughtful silence, "I need you to slouch a little more…that's it. Now give me a second."

Looking down to tweak his camera, Francis only looked back up when Arthur snapped :

"Don't even _think _about eating that macaroon, Alfred."

"I wasn't even – !"

"Yes you were. Don't argue with me."

"Stop pouting."

"I'm not pouting!"

"Yes. You're doing it again. Stop it before you ruin all of Francis' photographs."

Alfred mumbled something too low for Francis to hear but a moment later, Arthur nearly jumped out of his seat.

"My _eyebrows _do not ruin anything you unprofessional idiot!"

"Gentlemen…."

"I'm trying to distract Nessa! She looks hungry."

"She'll be alright, mate."

"Oh."

"…."

"Are you sure?"

"You know," said Francis, "I do like your chemistry. But can we have more shooting and less talking please? Or else your mouths will be open in every photogra – _Oui, oui, good bird_!"

On Alfred's arm, Nessa had her beak clamped around a strand of Alfred's hair – the piece that stuck up despite all sorts of product and all of Helen's wrath – and was stubbornly not letting go. Alfred attempted pull the eagle away from his hair but the bird had dug in her talons and would not leg go of his arm.

"_OW_. BAD. _BAD_ - "

:i:

It was only several hours later than Francis realised he hadn't heard Arthur laugh like that in years.

:i:

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>sorry for the long wait! in my defence, this chapter is over 14K long! :O I have posted it in two parts on tumblr & LJ but I like to keep everything tidy on FFnet since I can! There are lots of illustrations for this chapter, so please head on to my tumblr or links via my profile to have a look. :) I really hope you enjoyed it and sorry for all the backstory! xx the plot is will certainly start moving much faster from now on, though backstory is quite central to the fic in general. Should I write them as timestamps instead? Thoughts?

Reviews, crit or just a comment will be hugged and loved! :D more soon.


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